Ostian Espionage Head Recruitment Programme
by LaCerise
Summary: With the seriousness over, it's time for some Eastern Sacaen influence! Introducing Guy-San, our favourite swordmaster with the green blade, the killing edge and a body length of a paltry 150 cm...
1. BuhBye Young Master!

**Buh-Bye Young Master...**

**(By darkblaziken and snowylavendermist)**

**(yes, two people are co-writing this)**

There was a tiny, almost timid knock on the door.

Hector, Supreme Marquess Extraordinarie of Ostia, defender of good and slayer of evil, villainous bosses, Nergal and lumpy fire dragons, looked up from the mess of paperwork on his table (Elimine, doesn't simply he hate looking at accounts and diplomatic junk. Why do people even bother…After all, what _can't _be solved using an axe), expecting to see his darling, lovely and absolutely gorgeous-in-red-lingerie wife at the door.

His jaw dropped.

Not because his wife was standing there in red lingerie.

"Matthew, since _when_ did you knock on the door before you came in?" The last time he came in, he sneaked up and scared the living daylights out of him, making him spill ink all over the 94 page documents for Bern's diplomatic negotiations (yes, they had _problems_) and he had to write all that 94 pages of incomprehensible words all over again…

Matthew strode in, completely unaffected by what Hector had just said. He wore the professional expressionless spymaster I-kill-without-batting-an-eyelash look which he only used on missions and when he wanted to try and prevent himself from committing a murder on Ostian grounds and creating a nice dead Serra.

Hector shuddered. This was downright creepy.

"Milord. I have something for you." He dropped a brown envelope neatly on top of the financial statements Hector was working on.

Hector's jaw, if possible, dropped even further.

Firstly, Matthew was never one to go through all the proper paperwork (in his own words, screw the red tape and bring a pair of scissors), and here he was, with a brown envelope, complete with the wax seal used by the head of the Ostian spy network (Hector took a while to recall this; he hadn't seen this seal ever since he promoted Matthew, who usually just left all the paperwork to the paper shredder).

. Next, Matthew had called him _milord_. According to past experience, Matthew called him 'young master' within earshot, and 'that lumbering lout that I am slave to' out of earshot.

"Um. Matthew. You. Urgh. Matthew. You. Are you feeling alright today?" He sought for possible reasons to explain the peculiar behaviour. "Did Oswin threaten to send you shopping with Serra for clothes again? Did Serra threaten to ask Lucius to marry the two of you in secret again? Dammit, can you stop giving me that look? If you really want to know, you are starting to look like Jaffar when I told him that his hair looked like a Christmas porcupine!" Hector snatched up the brown envelope with great annoyance, and tore the seal open.

Out fell a piece of parchment titled "Resignation Letter".

Hector's eye twitched.

This was _not_ happening.

* * *

Matthew took another step with great difficulty, then stopped to rest, panting. He was hot, tired, sweaty and had been walking for the past three hours and finally, the gates of Ostia was looming over him.

_Finally…_

Looking downwards, he glared his feet. "Alright, I'm at the Ostian gates."

No response.

"I said, I'm at the Ostian gates!"

Still no response.

"Would you two please kindly let go of my feet?" he snapped in annoyance. "I've been dragging the two of you for the past 20 miles. Isn't this a little extreme?"

No response.

"Serra, Lord Hector," Matthew sighed. "Could you PLEASE let go of my legs now?"

"Never!" Both the weights clamped onto his legs cried unanimously.

"Matthew, how could you leave me alone in Castle Ostia?" Serra screamed, on the verge of tears. She tightened her grip on Matthew's leg, her painted fingernails digging into his trousers. "Won't you miss all those lovely goodnight kisses I give you?"

_Thank Elimine her aim was trashy. So far, he had always managed to dodge her pudgy pink lips smeared with lip gloss, lip liner, lip balm, lip moisturizer, lip refresher and lipstick. The walls behind him, of course, never had much luck._

_To think that day Oswin was complaining about dubious pink glittery things on the walls._

"Matthew!" Hector howled. "After all that we have been through, is this how you repay my kindness to you as a servant?" He tightened his grip on Matthew's leg too, cutting off the blood flow.

_Kindness? Yeah right. Two threats of impending death, three murder attempts and 2 gold a month was very kind indeed. _

_Only if your definition of kind is the mistreatment of your loyal servant._

Matthew shifted uncomfortably. Both his legs were going numb. According to Guy, Priscilla had said that Erk's mentor's mentor's father had said that when your legs go numb, they would turn black and fall off soon.

Personally, he thought that Karel's hair was of a nice colour, but he did not particularly like the idea that his legs were going to turn the same shade of charcoal, even if the charcoal was glossy, silky and sleek.

_Which man in Elibe would want __**sleek**__ legs?_

He paused for a minute. He could think of someone, and that someone was the person he was hoping to see a day from now. Hopefully, he would accept his request to stay and help out at the orphanage…

"Look, I have to go now," he glared at the two burdens clamped to him. "Really, Lucius is expecting me tomorrow, and it wouldn't be nice to be late on the first day of work."

"I don't care!" Serra whined. "Mattie-poo is mine!"

"I don't care!" repeated Hector. "Matthew you were Ostia's and the crown's and therefore my brother's and therefore mine!"

"You really won't let go?" Matthew huffed, crossing his arms. "Not even for a mascara wand and a one-way ticket to the arena?"

"Never!" Hector and Serra had never ever worked together in perfect coordination before. This was a first.

"Not even for two mascara wands and a two-way ticket to the arena?" He was getting a little nervous. His nerves had more or less stopped working in his legs.

"Never!" This was in perfect coordination with a tightened glomp.

"Not even for the entire of Lady Louise's mascara set, face masks and lipstick collection and a permanent residence in the loft of the arena?" He was sweating, and turning hysterical. He could almost see his flesh turning dark, shiny and smooth through the thin fabric of his trousers.

_Nooooooo! I don't want hairless long gleaming black legs!_

He gritted his teeth. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He whistled to the butcher in his stall along the road. "Hey! I need you're the biggest wyvern leg that you have!" He tossed the bewildered butcher a red gem.

_Screw the red gem. I need to save my legs._

The butcher handed him a slab of meat as big as himself.

"Oof!" Matthew staggered under the weight. If it had not been for the two weights holding him down, he would have toppled right through the gates of Ostia.

Propping himself straight, he took careful aim.

_Here goes nothing…_

He dropped the slab of wyvern leg onto the two heads latched onto his legs like two leeches.

Instantly, the two pairs of arms let go. The heads were pinned to the ground by the wyvern leg. He wished he could have seen Serra's expression at being covered by a stinking carcass, but her face was buried under a sea of sunflower yellow fat that was oozing.

_Now, I make my escape on my saved hairy legs._

Whistling, Matthew wiped the oil on his hands onto Serra's cloak, then stuffed them into his pocket before making his way out of the gates of Ostia.

_Finally, I am a free man once more._

**Authors' Notes:**

**Darkblaziken: laughing uproariously at her own fic now**

**snowylavendermist: laughing uproariously at darkblaziken's reaction**

**Both: We hope you have enjoyed this and please review and give suggestions! Oh, and if you have special requests, please tell us in a review and we would do our best to put it into the story! BTW, this story is mainly about how Matthew got replaced by Astol since we feel that there is this stark contrast in abilities, both appearance-wise and occupation-wise. So we would have many characters coming up to try their luck! Be prepared to be bedazzled by the shimmering Lucius, the taciturn Raven, the talkative chatterbox who wears lip balm, lip stick, lip refresher...(we all know who that is), the marvellously Christmassy and festive Jaffar and many more! **

***We hope to have cameo appearances from other continents...if we can somehow invite them over...**

**Matthew: Hey everyone! Hanging around too to see how Ostia fares without me! Now Hector will finally regret mistreating me. 2 gold pieces a month, what kind of salary is that! That's purely worker abuse! **

**Darkblaziken: Hey Matthew! How's your new job!**

**Matthew: Yeah, it's well, kinda heavy...**

**snowylavendermist: You mean the kids at Lucius' orphanage are overweight?**

**Lucius: HEYYYYY! **

**snowylavendermist: *ducks Aureola* *gets hit by Luce* *gets fried by lightning* *dodges divine* *faints from concussion due to heal staff***

**Matthew: Well...you see...Serra and Hector were...kinda hard to drag you know...kinda heavy...*ducks Serra's mend staff* I meant Hector...*ducks Wolf Beil* But anyways...it's like now, I have like 4 people glomping me?**

***camera shifts to focus on Matthe's body***

**Matthew: This one here is Chad *raises right leg*. This one here is Cath *raises left leg*. This one here is Lugh *raises right hand* and this one here is *Ray*. And for all fangirls! CHAD IS NOT MY SON! Period!**

***Lucius tries to clean Matthew's mouth with a bar of Louise's fragrant bath soaps***

**Darkblaziken: Sigghhhhhh~ Anyways, stay tuned!**


	2. Not Welcomed Astol!

**Not Welcomed, Astol**

**(Co-written by darkblaziken & snowylavendermist)**

Hector stifled a huge yawn as he descended the steps for the dining room. He had a blissful sleep, a wonderful wife, a great dream and his lucky red underpants on. He was…strangely happy.

He paused habitually at the fifth step and bent down to pick up the daily banana skin that was waiting for him at the sixth.

His hands came into contact with solid marble ground.

_Strange._ Hector stood up and counted the number of steps again. Yes, he was standing on the fifth step. He looked down. No banana skin in sight.

He rubbed his eyes and stared at the grey marble.

The grey marble stared back listlessly at him.

_Did Matthew paint the banana skin grey with white swirls today?_

He rubbed his eyes and groped the marble.

The marble glared at him with the usual coldness of someone who did not enjoy being groped.

_How could Matthew have forgotten about—oh wait, he's not in the castle anymore._ Hector mentally slapped himself as he straightened.

As he reached the door to the dining room, he pushed the door open before stepping back quickly, expecting the pot of flour balanced precariously on top of the door to tip itself down onto the floor.

_The last time he pushed open the door and walked in, he somehow managed to trigger a switch to pelt rotten tomatoes at him, followed by a vast expense of white flour that came down like a heavy downpour of snow._

_He knew that it was Christmas that particular day, but still…For St. Elimine's sake it was a door, and the door could throw rotten tomatoes and vomit flour!_

Nothing came.

_Okayyy…is Matthew ill or something? This is abnormal._

Hector mentally slapped himself again. From now on, he would never have to worry about another booby trap. It would take a little time to get used to that, but he was quite sure he wouldn't miss it.

_Brilliant. No more super glue in my armor._

He shuddered as he recalled that day when they had to send for the smith, who nearly tried to roast him alive by trying to melt all the metal that was stuck to his shirts and pants in a 400 degree furnace.

* * *

As the day slowly rolled by, Hector realized that he _did_ miss those little silly pranks, just a teeny, weeny bit.

He now understand the teeny, weeny frown Rath and Raven both wore that day the army parted, both sticky and drenched from head to toe because of Wil's many tears and long strings of snot that he dribbled all over them as he hugged them and cried like there was no tomorrow.

And no, he was _not_ going to do the same thing Wil did.

Or did he just do it without his own knowledge?

He had this vague memory of him thinking how slippery Matthew's legs were and how difficult it was to hold on tightly onto the two poles before he woke up in the royal bathtub, swimming in a sea of wyvern blubber.

Now, when did _that _happen?

Without the person who constantly wreaked havoc around, the castle was almost unnaturally silent and tranquil.

Almost.

Serra was still around, of course, and everyone knows that she close her mouth for a single second, clucking continuously like a mother hen with a severe malfunctioning beak.

But without someone to constantly throw sarcastic remarks at her, she rarely had to scream. Hector was also beginning to appreciate how great a chore it was to have to put up with her every day; with one of her main victims (or rather, as she prefers it, the vassals to her royal undiscovered hidden crouching and ready-to-emerge-in-glamour-and-style self) gone, she now frequented Hector's office (much to his horror and chagrin), driving him nearly out of his mind with her incessant high-pitched banter.

For example, she walked in this morning and talked about the weather. For four solid hours.

It was a sunny day, full stop.

During lunch, she sat opposite him, discussing leeks. For two hours.

It was green, leafy, stinky and not pretty, full stop.

After lunch, she sat in the armchair behind him and talked about Lady Louise's facemasks. For another four solid hours.

It was mud, some pieces of highly expensive mud made out of wyvern dung, dead leaves, water and a huge price tag, full stop.

At dinner, she sat opposite him again, discussing ham. For another two hours.

It was pink, dead, tastes good when Lowen cooked it and gross when Oswin cooked it, full stop.

After dinner, she stationed herself opposite him in the lounge and talked about whether she should dye her hair black or blond.

She could have dyed it rainbow with black dairy cow patches for all he cared. Either way, she would still be just as intolerable, full stop.

He would rather have fallen for a hundred of Matthew's practical jokes than have Serra beside him.

But as the week passed by, Hector realized a much more pressing problem with Matthew's absence: the regular reports about Bern were simply not coming in anymore. Without a leader to order the group around (however lax Matthew seemed usually, he always managed to get the job done with amazing efficiency), the other spies were not turning up as frequently as they should be.

And the stuff that they sent in was horrendous, absolute trash fit only for Serra's reading material. It was comprehensive enough, yes, but it was comprehensive in the way that it told Hector what time Zephiel brushed his teeth, what he ate for breakfast, how long he took to use the toilet, but it could not tell him when Bern was planning another invasion or assassination attempt.

It was depressing.

For all he knew, the next day, some assassin of Bern would sneak into Ostia, slit his throat, get away safely, and his spies in Bern would still be squatting outside Zephiel's toilet timing how long he took to pee.

That was disturbing.

Finally, after two weeks of a lack of regular updates on Bern's newest strategic motives, Hector decided that he had enough.

He needed a new Head for the Ostian spy network. And a good one at that.

Now, when Lord Hector the marvelous, gallant, gentlemanly, handsome Marquess Extraordinaire of Ostia wanted something, he always got it

Almost always.

The exceptions were the times he wanted Matthew dead, but his Wolf Beil, and Oswin's silver lances could never manage to catch that assassin, even if he was 2 inches away from them.

Well, considering Oswin's capabilities, that would have been a daunting task for the poor man. That guy could not spear a wyvern's butt even if it was dangling right in front of his face.

Back to the point, all his life, Oswin, his wife and his late brother had always ensured that his every whim and need was attended to. Yes, our Lord Hector is in fact even more spoilt than Serra (who was never spoilt at the orphanage but behaved like that anyway).

So, when word was passed that Hector demanded a new Head for the Ostian spy network, Oswin set to work immediately.

Oswin may not be able to poke a wyvern's butt, but he sure could attend to Hector's demands. Heck, he was that Honourable Knight for the Pedagogue of the Enfant that was future Marquess of Ostia Lord Hector.

It sure sounded like a grand title.

Literal translation meant he changed Lord Hector's smelly diapers when Hector was a baby.

In less than a day, the notices were up all around Elibe (don't ask me how that is humanly possible; it just is). And sure enough, two days later, a man strode into the Ostia castle demanding an audience with Hector.

* * *

Hector examined the man with vague disgust. He was in his twenties, wore what seemed like a simple traveler's garb, and, above all, had a mop of purple hair. Not the long flowing lavender hair that belonged to Legault, which oddly suited him and made him look cool and suave, but closer to Erk's hair colour, which on anyone else simply seemed like a declaration of their homosexuality.

It was a dirty bunch of hair that resembled an overgrown weed garden sprayed with purple dye. Or rather he looked as though he bought a mop, broke the stick off, coloured it purple using cheap dye, then glued the mop of purplish tendrils to his head.

In short, he looked nothing like a good spy, or even a thief. He was too conspicuous, too unpleasant, too suspicious, and basically, Hector mused, he was the sort of man no woman in the right frame of mind would want—_only someone maybe as weird as…Hawkeye's daughter or granddaughter or great-granddaughter would want_.

Hawkeye's daughter had been weird, he recalled. She had come for fetch her father when they parted after defeating Nergal, and she had snubbed every handsome male present, including Eliwood, Karel and even him!

The worst insult was, she seemed to prefer Bartre, Dorcas and even Oswin!

Hector shuddered as he thought of how he should introduce this man to her. Probably she would like him.

"State your name and purpose," he commanded.

"My name is Gor—I mean, Astol. I am a traveler who specializes in…tricky acquisitions. I saw a poster saying that the Ostian spy network required a new Espionage Head. Hence I've come here for the "trial" to see if you would hire my services," the man said with a short bow.

"Very well," Hector said, eyeing Astol suspiciously. "You have one day to discover all the secret passages in this castle. My men will be around, and of course they will catch you and bring you here if they spot you doing anything suspicious. If you can name me at least 5 secret passageways in this castle at the end of the day, you'll get the job." Hector would not say that he knew all the secret pathways in the castle, but Matthew did and he did show him quite a few of them.

Most of them were virtually undetectable unless to the trained eye, and one day was certainly not enough to find five of them, unless your skills rivaled that of Matthew's or Leila's.

To cut the long story short, Hector simply did not believe that this man was competent enough; setting an impossible task would surely put him off, he thought. However, the man gave a short bow and left, presumably to complete the task.

Hector rolled his eyes. That Astol man would definitely fail. And sure enough, after half a day, Oswin turned up dragging him by the collar.

"Milord, this man was found lurking suspiciously around the castle. What should I do with him?" Oswin drew his lance from nowhere and pointed it at Astol's chest.

Hector sighed inwardly. _Oh god, if Oswin could catch this dude, even _he_ would make a better spy than him, and that's saying something. Like come on, this was the guy who failed to poke a hole into the butt of the Bern wyvern that was swinging its humongous bottom in his face! _

Hector vaguely recalled that time during Christmas when they played catch and the only person Oswin could catch was Wallace. And that was during the game when Hannah too was playing.

Considering that she moves at a speed of 20 metres an hour…

Hector sighed again.

"Oswin, let the man go. He was on the spymaster trail. Now, Astol. You have failed to complete the task I set you, so please leave."

Astol massaged his throat and glared at Oswin before continuing, "Very well, milord. It is evident that you do not appreciate my talent—" (Hector gagged conspicuously), "but let me warn you. I may be the best candidate you will ever find. I will come back after three months. If you wish to recruit me then, you are still welcome to do so."

Hector snorted audibly. "Right. We will definitely find a better candidate, thanks for your concern."

"Really." Astol raised a skeptical eyebrow in crude imitation of Matthew (but of course, he did not know that). "Well, I assure you, with the conditions and salary you are giving now, you will not. No one will accept a measly 20 gold a month."

"That's ten times what I—" Hector broke off mid-sentence, realizing that it was not exactly good for outsiders to know that he actually paid Matthew 2 gold a month. "Well, anyway. I'm quite sure I will find someone better. Now, please leave before I make Oswin skewer you in the name of infiltrating the Ostian castle with illegitimate purposes."

"You'll regret this," Astol declared before he turned around and left pompously. Hector watched him leave without a trace of regret.

_Right. I'll hire you the day Serra keeps her mouth shut for a whole day._

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**DarkBlaziken: aaaand, that's the end of the chapter! Well, this chapter was quite boring, yes, because it's Astol. Look, how interesting can Astol get. I promise the next chapter will be better.**

**Matthew: Oh, god, that dude is an epic fail. Please, if you do not wish for others to know your real name, don't utter the first half of your name before swallowing it back. How many names start with Gor? A bit of background research will reveal that your name is Gorlois. Now even _I_ know that, and I'm stuck in an orphanage which isn't really the best place for information, you know.**

**snowylavendermist: Right. So what's your real name, Matthew? Now you're no longer a spy, you don't have to assume a false name.**

**Matthew: My real name is Hans Oster! You know, that dude who worked as a spy for Hitler but secretly wanted to assassinate him? Yeah. Look, Hitler and Hector, how much of a difference is that?**

**DarkBlaziken: …are you being sarcastic again?**

**Matthew: Haha, yeah. My real name is just…Matthew.**

**(DarkBlaziken and snowylavendermist glare exasperatedly at him)**

**snowylavendermist: You hypocrite, Matthew. Either ways, that *ahem* reference to *ahem* Hawkeye's *ahem* daughter *ahem* was intentional. Yup, stay tuned to watch Oswin, Legault, and even *gasp* GUY? audition to be the ESPIONAGE HEAD OF OSTIA. So who shall replace Matthew? Will Astol's prediction really come true? Will the Ostian spy network be doomed for the rest of eternity?**

**DarkBlaziken:…stop being melodramatic, Flo. We all know the result already.**

**snowylavendermist: *glare* Shuddup Matt, you spoilsport!**

**Matthew: Huh? Talking to me? I'm a spoilsport? *tears well up in Matthew's eyes***

**DarkBlaziken: Haha…apologies, she was talking to me. Yeah, I'm female, but I'm supposedly you. How does that work out.**

**snowylavendermist: Anyway, keep your eyes peeled for the next chapter!**


	3. We Shall Spell Fail as SERRA

**We shall Spell Fail as S.E.R.R.A**

It had been 4 days…

4 days since he had increased the monthly salary of the head of the Ostian spy network to 25 gold a month and there was still no one applying! Outrageous! Preposterous! That was 12.5 times the amount that he paid Matthew and that was one thousandth of his monthly salary!

Hector paced back and forth on the carpet, ignoring the Oswin following him like a lost puppy.

"Oswin! Increase the sum to 30 gold!" Hector turned around, barking. "And stop sticking your nose right at my bottom, you nearly kissed my butt and my butt does not appreciate being kissed!"

"Sorry, milord," Oswin bowed, kissing Hector's feet. "Please calm down milord."

Hector tried very hard to stop himself from erupting as he felt the warm air warm his bottom in the most unpleasant way.

Resisting the urge to scrunch up Oswin's hair, he glared at the poor knight and stomped out of the room. He was sick and tired of waking up in the middle of the night by those oafs of spies who insisted on trumpeting their horns to announce their very conspicuous arrivals and knocking on his door in the middle of the night telling him the oh-so-significant news that Zephiel had eaten some bad bacon and had recently clogged up the royal Bern toilets with his smelly mess.

* * *

There was a knock on the door.

Hector raised his head from where he was trying desperately to figure out the imbalances of the monthly accounts sheet and the mysterious purchases of six carriages of water-proof pink mascara and face powder. "Come in!"

Serra walked in with pink eyelashes and an abnormally white face. She had one of those faces that said that she was there on serious business.

_That pink mascara looks familiar…_

"You!" Hector cried, leaping up. "You were the one who stole from the Ostian funds to-"

He paused in mid-sentence as he took in Serra's look. She had not said anything, and instead looked utterly solemn.

_There was something fishy._

In fact, the expression on her face resembled the one Raven had worn when Hector had once laughingly clapped the hero on the back and told him that acceptance of his sexual tendencies was the first step to recovery.

"Uhh…Serra? Is there…something you need?" Hector said uncertainly. Boy did he hope that Serra was not here to tell him about her women troubles. He started to inch for the door. He most definitely did not want to deal with a Serra who had mood swings.

Where was Matthew when you needed him?

_Oh right, playing best-friends-forever with Lucius._

_Wait…that was Raven, right?_

_Oh wait wait! That was best-lovers-forever…_

"Lord Hector!" Serra announced rather loudly, making Hector jump into the air.

"Y-y-yes?" He was sweating buckets.

"I want to be the head of the spy Ostian network!" Serra screamed. "I want that 30 gold a month! That's 12.5 times my monthly pay! Me want! Me want!"

Hector blinked. Serra and spy had nothing in common, besides the fact that they both started with 's' and annoys the hell out of him, often simultaneously.

"O-o-okay…" Hector pondered. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea. She could be a spy for Ostia, go to Bern and annoy the hell out of Zephiel and force him to reveal all his inner secrets by nagging and screaming in his ear canal everyday, every hour, every minute.

Even while he was busy overflowing the latrine buckets.

"Great!" Hector felt optimistic for the first time in 4 days. "Okay, now what should I ask you to do for your trial?"

That was the difficult question. He knew that Serra certainly knew some of the secret passages in the castle. Heck, she probably dug the one from her room to the powder room.

Then he had a brainwave, a miraculous at that.

"Okay, Serra, for your trial mission," Hector gloated, pleased at his own cleverness. "You are to go to Bern and sneak into the royal castle. Then, you are to eavesdrop on King Zephiel for the next week and then you will report to me in one week's time with all the reports of what you have heard."

Serra gasped. "OHHHHHHHHHHHHH that's so exciting! I'll go pack right away! How many vassals are you giving me? Do I get VIP platinum card excess? Would I be recognised as who I really am, a descendent of one of the most prominent families of Etruria? Would…oh Saint Elimine…Lord Zephiel fall in love with my gorgeous beauty?"

She flounced out of the room, waving her heal staff around in the most dangerous manner possible.

Vases crashed, chambermaids fell to the ground unconscious, paintings fell, glasses broke…destruction ensued as Serra danced through the castle.

Hector sighed. He was…glad that he had sent Serra on this mission.

After all, the best case scenario was that she died while she was trying to find out what colour of mascara Zephiel used.

Heck…that weirdo probably even has a complete 40-colour set of gold eye shadow with an assortment of fat brushes for big-eye bag days and thin brushes for puny-eye bag days.

* * *

Two weeks of absolute bliss, without the constant annoyances named Matthew and Serra, was _heaven_ for Hector. Everyday, he could wake up in his wide royal Ostian bed beside his wife, with his head buried in the squishy white pillow that vaguely resembled creamy baked warm soft marshmallows (don't we wonder why Hector drools so much in his sleep…).

There were no more loud morning calls that sounded that the butcher just moved his abattoir outside his balcony.

Serra's screams were pretty bad, especially when she realised that the skin on her chin had sagged by another millionth of an inch overnight.

There were no more rude intrusive morning calls that was rather smelly, unhygienic, very annoying, very early and very much to the disturbance of his wife to find another man in bed with them.

Matthew had a penchant of waking Hector up by standing on his abdomen and jumping up and down, screaming 'I believe I can fly'.

Once, Hector shifted by accident and Matthew fell off, right onto his wife.

That day, Hector made sure Matthew did touch the sky.

The next day, Oswin had complained of a large gaping hole on ceiling of the dining table. Hector had complained of a sore arm by lifting too much. Matthew had complained that he most likely had a severe brain haemorrhage and why Lord Hector was not paying him danger-insurance money since his 'poor miserable loyal henchman' had fractured his skull into 12 pieces on the job.

But those two lovely peaceful tranquil weeks were coming to a close, and Hector dreaded the arrival of the pink-haired devil.

Sure enough, the bubblegum smell started coming in.

Pink, strawberry, sticky and undeniably _Serra._

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Hector pulled the blankets tighter over his head. "I don't want Serra to come back! Never!"

The bubblegum smell was now stifling. He was sure that he was swimming in a sea of transparent strawberries and invisible pink unicorns from Lala-land.

Boom! Boom! Crash!

"I'm back!"

Hector very nearly cried.

"So…Serra…uhh…welcome back to Castle Ostia!" He knew he sounded ungracious, insincere and all, but at least he did welcome her back instead of send her straight back into Zephiel's floodgates of smelly dung.

"It's SO awesome to be back, Lord Hector!" Serra bounced in her chair. "You have no idea how the castle at Bern stinks! Like, what did all the cooks serve to King Zephiel? He's like a human methane generator! You can, like, light the continuous stream of gas coming out from his behind and like cook a eight-course meal with it! Like, it's that bad! My poor delicate nose suffered so much that it started peeling…See Lord Hector…the skin's all red and flaky and…"

"Okay," Hector interrupted. He had to, before she launched into one of her tirades about how her pores had widened to the size of a soybean.

Wait, only Bartre had pores the size of soybeans.

Or so his wife said after she had heard what Lyn told her and Lyn apparently heard it from Eliwood who heard it from the tactician who heard it from Nino who heard it from Priscilla who heard it from Erk who heard it from Pent who heard it from his wife Louise who heard it from Lucius who heard it from Canas, who was treating Bartre for some mysterious ailment which involved blue blisters and suspicious green pimples.

Hector could have sworn the original sentence was 'Bartre had chest hairs the length of soybeans.'

Hector smiled. His hand moved up to his chest involuntarily. He had gigantic blue tufts of bushy hair sprouting out of his chest and he was proud of it.

Apparently his wife liked it too. She liked weaving it into little braids and then tying them into little buns, like the kind Lowen used to make for the army whenever he had extra flour leftover from colouring Athos' hair and making Pent's ultra-nutritious super-whitening shampoo.

"Lord Hector!" A scream jolted him out of his reverie. He jumped as Serra stood before him, one hand on hip, other hand brandishing her staff two inches away from his nose.

"Lord Hector! I was trying very hard to tell you what I found out! You-"

There were still bits of dubious brown sticky alien goo sticking to the tip of her staff, perfuming the air with a pungent stink not unlike what lingered in the air after Oswin had a bad case of stomach-ache after eating beans with bananas and morph juice.

He did _not_ want that on his face.

Moving out of Serra's range of attack, Hector interrupted. "Right, Serra, _I apologise_, for being distracted but could we _please_ continue? What did you find at Castle Bern besides the fact that King Zephiel is a unique air-refreshener?"

Pompously, Serra reached into her sleeves and pulled out a 12 feet long piece of parchment. "Well, firstly, parentage of King Zephiel is King Desmond and Queen Hellene. Place of residence is Castle Bern…"

White marshmallows were popping up before his eyes, their fleecy white coats of sugar gleaming and enticing. One marshmallow grew liquorice stick legs and jumped over a fence of chocolate in a cotton candy sky. Two marshmallows grew liquorice stick legs and jumped over a chocolate fence in a cotton candy sky, one after another. Three marshmallows…

"Current occupation is King of Bern, nicknames include the Smelly King, the King Who Smells like Wyvern Poop, the Royal Poop of Bern, the Royal Methane-Generator, the Royal Gas Power Station. Length of eye bags is 5 millimetres per eye…"

Hector jolted. "How the heck is that relevant?"

Which idiot placed eye bags amongst the top priorities in a spy report? What was King Zephiel going to do, scare the hell out of his enemies by showing them his nano-sized eye bags?

Serra waved him silent impatiently. "His favourite food is wyvern feed and hay mixed with morph juice and soybean mush…"

Hector gagged, not just at Serra's irrelevancy.

"And his favourite drink is vodka…"

Zephiel could suntan on a beach mat in a sea of vodka for all he cared.

"And his pyjamas bottoms is green with purple paisley patterns…Gross…"

Hector resisted the urge to fling his Wolf Beil at the head of the cleric before him. _His _pyjamas bottoms were purple with green paisley patterns.

"His favourite activity is dying the colour of his beard rainbow with white and black polka-dots…"

Hector's knuckles were white from his fist-clenching.

"And he wears his lucky silver boxer shorts with gold glitter and imaginary pink wyverns and pea-sized eggs!"

"Serra!" Hector roared in a fury.

"What the heck you bring me all those stuff for? Do you think I am vaguely interested in knowing what kind of underpants Zephiel likes to wear when he is plotting another attack on Ostia? What is he going to do in battle with them, huh? Pelt me with pea-sized 2-dimensional eggs?"

Silence.

"He might summon the pink silk wyverns to rise up from his underpants and distract you with their striped black-and-white bottoms!" Serra quipped.

There was nothing left to do beside for Hector knock his Wolf Beil right onto Serra's head (his aim was _deadly_ accurate when he was _really really REALLY _annoyed), knock the cleric out cold and ask Oswin to dump the incriminating evidence at a specific address.

And now, he was back to finding another replacement for Matthew.

Sigh.

* * *

The next day, Pent and Louise both woke up with a start as they heard a scream from the ball room.

"Darling, did you hear that?" Louise frowned. "It sounded like little Erk!"

"Oh dear, he must have choked on a fishbone in his salmon fillet or something…" Pent patted Louise's hand. "It's alright dear, Erk is going to be fine after three days of constant agony beside Monsieur Toilet Bowl, dribbling lots of spit."

The truth was, Erk had got up early that morning in a very good mood. The sun was bright, the birds were cheery and the coffee was aromatic. When the doorbell rang, he had gone out and found a huge parcel on the doorstep wrapped in red and green paper.

The label read 'To Erk, merry early Christmas, from Santa Claus". He thought it looked vaguely familiar, like…Oswin's handwriting, but shrugged and carried it to the ballroom.

It was pleasantly heavy, and he hoped that Santa had remembered to send him the 309 books on his wish list made for last year. Perhaps it was the 'Divine Ways to Try and Calculate The Number of Kilojoules of Energy your Elfire has'? Or was it '1001 Ways to Serra-Proof Yourself", written by Mattos Tia?

He had open the wrapping paper excitedly and opened the box with trembling fingers…

A scrap of white here, a tuft of pink there…

And he screamed.

* * *

**_Matthew: Sweatdrops. That pink-haired devil actuallu thought that she could replace me? Ha!_**

**_darkblaziken: Shut it Matt!_**

**_snowylavendermist: Shut it all of you! It's not like you did a particularly good job at when you were still there..._**

**_Matthew: Says WHO?_**

**_Guy: Says I!_**

**_Matthew: Guy, GET OUT before I reclaim my three favours by asking you to a) marry Serra b) marry Karel c) marry Priscilla's horse d) marry Lucius e) adopt Hyperion as your twin brother f) do all of the above._**

**_Guy: Hey! Blackmail!_**

**_Matthew glares._**

**_Guy exits quietly with no further complaint._**

**_darkblaziken: Well, as you can see, we have a skirmish of sorts..._**

**_Matthew raises eyebrows._**

**_darkblaziken: But stay tuned! Cos next up is our favourite suspicious orange, juicy and pulpy. You squeeze him and you get nothing but blood! You poke him and you still get nothing but blood! So why is he useful? Well..._**

**_Matthew: I'm sure everybody wants thei buttoms warmed by annoying generals bending down and breathing upon their rear ends..._**

**_snowylavendermist pushes Matthew off: Anyways, stay tuned!_**


	4. Oswin's Wardrobe Malfunction

**Oswin's Wardrobe Malfunction!**

**By darkblaziken n snowylavendermist**

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER CONTAINS IMAGES WHICH MAY OR MAY NOT DISTURB YOU. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH, BELOW THE AGE OF TWELVE OR HAVE JUST HAD YOUR LUNCH/DINNER.

* * *

A week has passed since Serra's utterly failed attempt to gain the title of the Head of the Ostian Spy Network.

Translation: since that disastrous attempt where the pink-haired devil tried and failed to find out more about Bern other than Zephiel's bowel activities (and has thus been conveniently disposed of at the Reglay's doorstep) and his maquillage tendencies, no one else has dared to try for the position of the Head of the Ostian Spy Network.

Hector sighed and glared at the stack of reports on his table. He really needed someone _efficient, _someone _dependable_ on that position. Now. If he could not manage someone soon, his spy reports on Bern was going to disintegrate into some health report on the one hundred and one ways to get diarrhoea.

He slammed the table in frustration.

Bad idea.

He glared at the newly splintered bits of oak in front of him, as though daring the pieces to grow back into a table. Which, of course, they didn't.

"Oswin!"

Aforementioned knight hurried into Hector's office in his full orange armor, convenient diaper in hand from where he had been practicing what he was best at. "Yes, milord?"

"Are you sure no one has applied for the position since Serra?"

"Absolutely certain, milord. The guards have been sent to patrol all of Ostia and have been ordered to bring back every single person who has shown some form of interest in the contents of the poster."

"And there has been no one? No one at all?"

"Well, there were a few of them, but it turns out that nearly all of them were illiterate and were simply gawking at the gold-trimmed parchment, and the rest were simply passing by or trying to peel the poster off to obtain the parchment."

Hector had really wanted to bang his head on the table repeatedly at that moment, but unfortunately, there was no table. Since when had he told Oswin to use gold-trimmed parchment? Sometimes the sheer stupidity of his advisor amazed him.

"Milord, if I may give a suggestion…"

Hector slumped into his chair and allowed him to continue, too tired to stop the idiot from speaking.

"…would you entrust the position to me temporarily, until we can find a more suitable candidate?"

This caused Hector to promptly leap out of his chair again. It took him another ten seconds to fully appreciate the meaning of this sentence (and this is the person who calls Oswin slow. Oh, the irony.) "What…you mean, make YOU the head of the Ostian Spy Network?"

Oswin nodded, a most sincere expression on his face.

Hector did not know whether this was the cue to laugh or to cry. "Oswin, you know…I know you're a most, um, _capable_ advisor, but, you know, no offence to your abilities, you do seem a little—you know, just that tiny, tiny bit—unsuited for the role."

Even Oswin understood the babbling lord.

"Milord, are you implying that I'm not good enough for the job?" he asked, his voice obviously tinted with hurt and upset.

"N-no! All I meant to say was, uh," Hector paused, uncertain how to put this in the most euphemistic (in Matthew's words, politically correct) way. "…oh, never mind. Alright, but I'll still have to put you on trial first, right? Uh, so let's see, what shall be your task…" Hector racked his brains for something very, _very_ hard. He found nothing. He thought so hard he used the dormant brain cells he had never used in his entire life.

And it clicked.

"Alright, Oswin, I want you to come up with ten disguises for the job. I mean, infiltrating the Bernese castle dressed like a wooden ta—I mean, dressed in that much clanking armour is rather conpiscu-conispi-conpicus-argh, dammit, what's that word again? Oh, right, _conspicuous._ Right, so trying to get to Bern's top secret war documents in full knight armour is rather conspicuous. So, Oswin, could you present me with ten disguises you can use as a spy?"

He was pretty certain that Oswin would absolutely fail at this task, since he practically wore the same thing 24 hours a day, seven days a week and 52 weeks a year. Yes, he knew for a fact that Oswin even wore his armour in his sleep. Talk about paranoia.

Either ways, he reasoned, he'd have a good reason for failing Oswin, and it would be a bit of a laugh for him as well. After all, anyone could hardly look worse than a beech table, right?

He was about to find out just how wrong he was.

* * *

Oswin, as always, took things very seriously. Perhaps a bit _too_ seriously at times. So, when Lord Hector had told him that he would get the job if he managed to come up with ten convincing disguises, he hurriedly went off to prepare them.

However, being someone with rather little dress sense (since he had been wearing that set of orange armour ever since he could fit into them), Oswin really had no idea what "inconspicuous" entailed.

So, after a few tedious hours of trying on, or rather, _squeezing into_ various sets of clothes, Oswin finally managed to find ten sets he were rather pleased with.

_Lord Hector will be so pleased, _he thought happily as he gathered up the bits and pieces of cloth.

* * *

"Milord!"

Hector looked up just in time to see a lumbering block of orange hurl itself into his dining room. With an inward groan he recognized it to be Oswin. He had managed to find the disguises so soon? He had expected to have to endure his presence again by next week, at least. "Yes, Oswin?"

"I have managed to find the disguises already," said Oswin eagerly. _Right. Like I didn't know._ "Would you like to see them now?"

Hector stifled a satiated burp and nodded. Well, at least he was going to get some after-dinner entertainment.

Oswin dashed out again at a speed Hector had never thought he was capable of. The things elation could do to people were amazing. Moments later, he returned, but it took Hector a moment to recognize that it was, in fact, Oswin.

That was not because the disguise had worked, by the way.

It was because said Knight had returned dressed in a red slightly tattered cloak which looked ridiculously small on him, a faded green sleeveless shirt which was under so much strain it looked as though it threatened to rip apart any moment, complete with awkwardly skinny white pants, an elaborate belt which was supposed to hang loosely from the hip but was now being stretched to its maximum capacity and a pair of boots four sizes too small.

In short, Oswin had returned dressed in Matthew's old clothes.

Or rather, he looked like a bloated prune pretending to disguise itself as a human Matthew.

Hector wished that he had eaten less of the twelve-course meal he had just had. Was that the wyvern leg that he felt sliding up his gullet?

"Uh, very well, Oswin, I know your rationale for dressing like this is because Matthew looked inconspicuous in this, but, um, it doesn't really work on you. Uh, so," Hector continued hastily as the corners of Oswin's mouth drooped to a hurt expression, "Never mind about that. Could you show me the next disguise, then?"

Oswin nodded dejectedly and went out to change into the next disguise.

_Please…he looked like a ball in Mattew's clothes…I'm sure huge oversized balls are not noticeable in the middle of Bern…Heck…he'll probably get poked by zillions of wyverns even before he got to the castle._

The next one was much better, though as ineffective as the previous one. Well, at least he had not tried to squeeze himself into something tight again. Oswin had somehow managed to procure a set of Wyvern Knight armour, but there was something about him which made him look completely out of place in them.

_Black armour…shoe polish in hair…charcoal on face…He'll probably only be inconspicuous if he somehow sneaked into the palace by the rubbish chute…That is if he didn't get stuck in the pipes halfway there first…_

Hector dismissed this too in the politest way he could think of, almost regretting what he had said as Oswin dragged himself out of the room with slumped shoulders.

The next one was _bad_.

Not only did it look bad. It smelt bad too.

Struggling to keep the roasted pigeon in his stomach, Hector coughed. "Oswin…please explain this…ehh…disguise?"

The dripping brown and murky slimeball nodded. "You see, Lord Zephiel has a well-known bowel problem, and thus, if I travel looking like one of his bowel products, no one would recognize me!"

Hector very nearly burst into tears. They could probably smell him all the way from Etruria and he calls that inconspicuous? Waving his hand, he dismissed Oswin to change out before the servants had to clean a very disgusting pile of regurgitated stomach matter.

The next one was _worse._

Hector saw a blond head with two pigtails tied with bright pink ribbons, before a humongous body heaved itself into the room, bucket in arm.

"Haiyah...I am a dairymaid today..." Oswin batted his eyelashes (in mimicry of Serra) and twirled a false pigtail, speaking in a falsetto voice.

Hector tried his best to not vomit at that place, at that instant, in that situation. "Oswin...please...change out now!"

It was not the time to be polite. If Oswin continued to stay in this disguise, Hector was sure that he would have a heart attack and die on the floor.

Oswin nearly cried as he left the room, pulling the blond wig from his head.

Subsequently, Oswin entered the room dressed as a bard (halfway through, he accidentally burst Nil's old shorts and ripped the Nil's old shirt), a fortune-teller _(somehow_ he had managed to find a set of Hannah's shapeless things, except that on him, he looked like more like a rubber ball)_,_ a scholar (He even got a mop of bright purple looks from somewhere), a priest (he conpletely tore the hem in Lucius' old clothes all the way up to reveal legs coated with orange hair) and even as a cook. While these were certainly not as disturbing as the first one, they weren't very effective either: it seemed that no matter what Oswin wore, he would just remain as conspicuous as a huge block of orange. Or perhaps even more conspicuous than a huge block of orange.

Hector, by then, almost hated himself for dismissing every single set of disguise; for every time he did not appear to show approval of what Oswin had worn, the corners of his mouth drooped that little bit more, and his shoulders sagged that little bit more. If Oswin had been accused by Hector of looking like a dog in the past, he was now looking like a very, very old dog.

As Hector regretfully waved his hand to dismiss Oswin once more (now dressed in a ridiculously huge chef's hat an oversized apron), expecting the corners of his lips to droop beyond the confines of his face, Oswin, who had looked so dejected since the first costume, suddenly perked up with renewed vigour and a smile on his face.

"Milord," he said excitedly, "Well, even if you had not liked these disguises, surely you would approve of the next one!" With that, he dashed out of the room.

Hector raised an eyebrow and tried to keep track of the number of costumes he had gone through. Nine. So this was the last one. Finally.

Moments later, Oswin returned with his final disguise.

Rather than describing what he was wearing, a description of Hector's response, perhaps, would be more useful at this instant.

Hector's eyes widened. His jaw dropped and nearly dislocated itself. Whatever half-digested remains of his twelve-course meal now threatened to rush out of his gaping mouth. His brain felt as though it had just been converted into a huge block of ice. He tried to make a comment, but he just ended up mouthing wordlessly like a fish.

For Oswin was there, dressed in a shockingly red, silky and completely lacy something which Hector recognized as what used to be Florina's lingerie.

Yes, it was a beautiful piece. Yes, it was _really_ nice to touch. Yes, he loved seeing his wife in it. Yes, it was Farina's present to her little sister. Yes, it was vaguely expensive. And yes, he loved that piece of revealing clothing.

But this was no joke. After seeing your wife look absolutely gorgeous in the same set of clothes, seeing a very flat, very hairy _man_ trying to squeeze himself into the exact same set of lingerie is so highly disturbing that the word "disturbing" is an understatement.

"Oswin…what the _heck_ is this?" Hector, having finally managed to find his voice, spluttered. The effect was a lot less intimidating that he had wanted it to be.

"Well milord…they said that King Desmond loves women…doesn't he? I thought that like father, like son and probably Zephiel loves women too. So I thought that dressing up as one of his harem and seducing Zephiel, which would be the best disguise ever!"

Zephiel would be seduced by him the day the stars shine pink in a yellow sky.

This caused Hector's voice to be lost, gagged and caught in his throat again. What the _hell_ was Oswin thinking of! Grabbing a piece of parchment, he scribbled what he had wanted to say in capital letters and shoved it in Oswin's face.

"Get out of my sight. Now. But, milord!" Oswin protested. "B-b-b-but don't you think that was absolutely sublime and—"

Hector snatched the piece of parchment back, underlined the word "now" ten times and shoved it back in Oswin's face.

Oswin promptly burst into tears and ran out of the room bawling like a little child.

After he had left, Hector retched and spewed out the contents of his twelve-course meal all over the table. He was never, ever going to trust Oswin again. Ever.

In retrospect, Oswin looked much better as a block of orange wood.

Just then, a guard rushed into the room. "Milord! We have a person outside the castle demanding to seek an audience with you regarding the head spy job!"

Hector slumped back into his chair, exhausted. "Let him or her come again tomorrow morning. Tell him that I'm too sick to see him now."

After all, he didn't need another clown dressing up in his wife's lingerie.

* * *

**snowylavendermist: Woohoooo! Another chapter done! Poor Oswin, sniff...**

**darkblaziken: Since when does anyone pity _Oswin_, tsk, so soft Flo!**

**Matthew: Yeah, why can't anyone pity me instead? *points at four weights hanging from four limbs* **

**darkblaziken: Awww...*pats Matthew on the head* Anyways, next up we have a mystery person...Is he a man, is she a woman? Is he a hero or sage? Is he paladin or pigeon? Is he man or morph? Is he...Nergal?**

**snowylavendermist: Nergal? I thought we're not doing Nergal?**

**Matthew: Nergal? Mwahaha! I get to get revenge again! *Demonstrates newest critical attack* Chad! Cath! Lugh! Ray! Hold on tight! Friple-Critical-Uber-Awesome-MattnCo.-Silencer! * Does a normal silencer with added wieghts hanging from the limbs tightly* *Poor innocent victim is knocked out by four simultaneous blows and an assassin's silencer***

**darkblaziken: Very...ehh...impressive? Anyway, wanna know who the next person is? Will he/she/it fail? **

**snowylavendermist: Let's just hope that he's less fail than Oswin...sigh...you know...maybe he'll be more successful if he wears grey and disguises himself as a wall or one of the pillars in Zephiel's castle or something.**

**Matthew: Tsk. I don't even need disguises to get the job done.**

**darblaziken: Stop being egoistic, tsk. Anyways, stay tuned!**


	5. Erk! A disaster!

**Erk! A disaster!**

Hector had been having a really good dream, one that involved a great deal of food, a right-hand man that catered to his every whim and fancy, a left-hand man who was intelligent and quite capable (though uber-annoying) and a wonderfully gorgeous wife who giggled shyly at him.

Then he woke up.

Intuitively, he groped at the blankets on the other side of the bed, only to find that (to his utmost annoyance and disappointment) the other side of the bed was empty, again.

There went his reason to stay in bed later than usual.

"Oh wait, I can't get out of bed late today!" He slapped himself on the forehead. "I have to meet that person who is auditioning for Matthew's position today!"

The thought of another person auditioning cheered him up a little. The sooner he could find a competent candidate, the sooner he would be able to stop reading medical reports with explicit details of painful bowel movements and the sooner he could settle back into comfortable life as a marquess.

Heck, the last report he received from his spies in Bern was enough to put him off food for two days altogether. He still hadn't found the idiot who decided that including graphic illustrations of King Zephiel squatting in his royal marble toilet would be very informative.

Saint Elimine forbid the day when they come up with the next brainwave and he would have to deal with reports that included audiotapes of Zephiel grunting and groaning like a dying camel as he did his royal bowel business.

* * *

"Milord," Oswin knocked politely and opened the door. That man was still a little sore from being rejected from Matthew's post, and he still wept into a lacy white utterly feminine handkerchief (to Hector's utmost horror) whenever someone mentioned the word 'disguise'. "This is the list of things you would have to do today…"

With a light shake of his hand, the roll of parchment unrolled and made its way across the room, out of the door, down the stairs, where it knocked over and smashed a vase and finally ended its epic journey through Castle Ostia.

Hector looked in sheer disbelief at the parchment. "What the heck is 'Be a judge for the Annual Look-Like-A-Pig Competition?"

Oswin looked disgruntled and explained. "This is a competition, milord, where people try and resemble a pig. You know, the thing that grunts, eats, sleeps, walks 5 millimetres than restarts the routine all over again. It sacrificed itself for your morning sausage, milord, so it is a very important creature who is very loyal to the Ostian throne. The candidates are judged by criteria: how much they can eat, how disgusting is the food they can eat, how long can they sleep, how much do they weigh, how well do they snort, how realistically do they lay down and wallow in the mud and how many brain cells they have. Of course, for brain cells, it's the less the merrier."

"And why the heck should I go?" Hector huffed.

"Because milord," Oswin continued. "The organizers have cordially invited you since they believe that you are a perfect role model for their competitors, in all terms including size, weight, greediness, character and et cetera. Furthermore, for your help, they have decided to present to you a trophy modeled after you."

Hector squinted at the trophy. It certainly looked like him alright, the small eyes and armour and even his Armads! Although he thought the ears were a little big and floppy, and the nose was a little too long and circular, with two slits that were too narrow and too long…To top it off, he looked a bit pink…

"Before you leave milord, here is the person whom asked to audition for the position yesterday…" Oswin stepped aside to reveal a very familiar person.

"ERK!" Ink bottles smashed, chairs toppled and smashed, table fell aside and smashed, papers were ripped, the carpet was ripped and clothes were ripped as Hector flung aside everything, including his Armads, and plummeted himself on the small tiny figure of the sage.

"Ouch…I…can't…breathe…" The small figure wheezed from where he was covered by armoured plates, long hairy capes and a lot of ink. He didn't look too happy. If anything, he looked a little strangled and squished. Like a prune going into a grinding machine to become prune juice.

"Erk!" Hector pulled back at last and glanced in absolute joy at the small purple-haired figure with a face that was looking a bit pale. "I have never been more happy to see you! You are auditioning? Wonderful!"

Forcibly grabbing Erk's hand, Hector shook his hand enthusiastically. "Am I glad to see you!" he bellowed.

The poor sage was trying to keep his stomach from heaving as he was flung up and down in the air like a rag doll. He would have had wanted very much to keep all parts of him, especially the brain cells, intact. Unfortunately for him, that very moment, he felt as though the brain cells were dropping out of his earholes. "Yes…very happy…" he wheezed, positively believing that he was dying. "Very…very…happy…I think…I see…the gates of heaven…huh huh…"

He collapsed in a pile of purple and clothes when Hector finally put him down.

"I would like to give you the post right away but…" Oswin suddenly became allergic to something and started coughing his lungs out. "It would be a bit unfair…so…you're trial shall be to watch over Castle Ostia while I am away!"

Oswin stopped coughing in mid-cough. "What? Milord Hector!" he demanded, cough non-existent anymore. "That is unfair! Objection!"

"Overruled!" Hector boomed (when did he ever learn such a complex word?), slamming his fist onto the table and causing the castle foundations to wobble.

The pile last known as Erk wobbled along with the castle.

"Haha, have fun Erk!" Hector roared with delight as he stomped out of the room, followed by a grouchy Oswin. The two of them were creating a magnitude 10.0 earthquake whose far-flung effects were felt even in Ilia. "Make sure you keep the Castle safe and sound! And don't mess with my wife!"

The door slammed loudly, splintering at the hinges.

People in Ilia started whispering about 'aftershocks'.

* * *

Hector stretched as he got down from his custom-sized carriage, a big smile stretched across his face.

The 'look-like-a-pig competition' had been the most fun thing that had happened to him in centuries. Not only did he get to show off his massive eating skills (who else in the entire of Elibe could eat six kilograms of slops, burp and still have stomach for dinner?), he was even applauded for it. Furthermore, everyone admired his oinking abilities, and his loud snorts won him admiring glances of many of the ladies present (many of them pink and round like pigs too) and most of the female pigs present as guest celebrities modeling for the occasion.

He proceeded to the door and grasped the handle, preparing to throw it open and announce his arrival at home to the entire of Elibe.

Only that the handle disintegrated into a neat pile of ashes at his feet the moment he rested one finger on it.

Hector stared at his finger in disbelief, a look of wonderment and shock crossing his features. Had he finally mastered the secret of the inner secret private no-one-else-knows-about fire?

He slammed his fist into his palm decisively. He had always told Eliwood that he had the intelligence and the secret potential of being a sage, just that the inner masculinity and swamp of testosterone raging within him refused to let him follow his inner potential and instead trained up on a manly and macho sport such as using axes.

He admired the beefy muscles on his arms and grinned. "Heh, I wonder how Erk is doing now…but he's so puny as a mage…"

"What the heck did you just say!" A high-pitched shrill voice screamed from inside, that seemed to testify an absolute absence of testosterone but instead copious amounts of estrogen and progesterone. "What did you say about me?"

The scream was so shrill that for a horrified moment, Hector thought that Serra had somehow returned. Instead, the royal Ostian doors flung open in two flaming masses to reveal a very angry sage.

The untidy mop of purple hair, usually kept limp by grease and gravity and Erk's constant pulling whenever he failed to understand a difficult concept, was standing straight, resembling a purple royal porcupine. It kind of reminded Hector of the stuffed porcupine he had once upon a time, the one he stuffed under his face at night so that it caught his drool (otherwise every night, Ostia was sure to flood all the way to Pherae).

Okay, Hector thought, digressing. Focus.

Erk's eyes, usually, two black patches of skin in the form of six-ton eyebags, was big and wide open, blazing like two bright purple stars from an alternate universe known as fairytale land, where trees were pink and black flowers and sages were wizened old people trying to sell poisoned cabbages and glass ballroom slippers.

Concentrate.

Erk's nose looked normal, so did his mouth. But his teeth were downright scary. His canines had elongated into long glittering fangs, not unlike those of a snake, and watery bits were dripping from the tips. They resembled the ones that vampires have, the long scary pointy needles that vampires (you know, the things that shimmer under the sun in one world and blister and die under the sun in another) use on their victims (usually either brown-haired high school girls or medieval blondes with blue eyes, but never a thirty year-old man with the shape of a barrel and hair sticking out like someone just ran static through it).

"Okay…" Hector stared, dumbfounded, at the transformed version. "Did he promote again or something?"

Then he saw his castle, the large black, crumbling, dark and smoky mass last known as the Ostian Castle. "AHHHHHHH!" he screamed, sending all the birds on a hasty migratory mission to safe places like Nabata. "What did you DO to my house?"

"I am doing what SERRA did to my house!" Erk screamed back, shattering all the glass within a 10-mile radius of him.

Lo and behold, it began to rain broken glass. Praise Saint Elimine.

"And what has MY house got to do with anything?" Hector screamed back, continuing the screaming match.

"Because YOU are the one who dumped that annoying pink devil in a cleric's dress on MY doorstep!" Erk screamed back, still continuing the screaming match.

Somewhere in Etruria, in Erk's house, Serra paused in the middle of ripping out the grey wallpaper and replacing it with pink lacy ones, and sneezed violently.

"That was an…an…an…ACCIDENT!" Hector screamed back, determined not to back down.

"WHAT ACCIDENT?" Erk screamed back, determined not to back down either. "IT WAS A DELIBERATE ATTEMPT ON MY LIFE!"

In the now unrecognizable dining room, Florina chuckled and carefully sipped her tea, stirring the liquid with a silver spoon. "Boys…" she sighed, smiling.

"WHY WOULD I WANT YOUR LIFE?" Hector screamed.

"Because I DON'T KNOW? WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME!" Erk screamed too.

And so they went on.

And on.

And on.

Till at last, both of them ran out of spittle and saliva and lay moaning on the doorstep of the Ostian castle, panting for water.

"You…disgusting…leek pie…" Hector panted.

"You…ape of a …garlic fly…" Erk panted back.

Smiling, Florina walked over to them and using her Rex Hasta, gave them both a not so forgiving blow on the head each, sending both of them into a state of unconsciousness for the rest of the week.

"Uhh…Milady?" Oswin looked wide-eyed. "I didn't you could hit that hard…" The crack that came from Hector's head and the smash that came from Erk's did not sound too healthy. He wondered if it would permanently leave damage on both his lord's and Erk's mental health. It certainly scarred _him_ for life, to know that his mistress was fully capable of murder while _smiling_.

"They were pretty annoying," Florina frowned and pouted. "No consideration for a woman when she is in discomfort…And that one burnt my Huey feather collection and all of Hector's drooling baby photos…such an ungracious guest…" Turning, she instructed Oswin. "Carry Lord Hector to his bedroom."

"And Erk?" His over-heating mind was imagining all kinds of scenarios that were too graphic to be written.

"Pack him in a cardboard and ask for express post to deliver him to Serra," she muttered, nodding. "It's been a long time since I've seen my friend Serra, I wonder how she is…maybe I should write a letter…" She walked off giggling.

Oswin shuddered, looking down at the prone body of Erk, with the swelling the size of a miniature fire dragon at the side of his head. He was glad that he did not meet the same fate as Erk, but he certainly hoped that this little…incident would not deter any would-be applicants for Matthew's position.

* * *

**Matthew: ...I suddenly feel glad to have left that place...even with the addition of four weights, it beats having a knock on the head by a Rex Hasta...**

**Florina: *waves Rex Hasta* Care to say that again?**

**Matthew: Aren't you supposed to be scared of me?**

**Florina: Is Hector a man?**

**Matthew: Yes...**

**Florina: There you go! *Chases Matthew around happily, all the while doing a tribal dance with her Rex Hasta***

**darkblaziken: There's actually a very simple explanation for it. You noticed that Florina put sugar in her tea right?**

**Matthew: Carp.**

**snowylavendermist: Sugar High!**

**Florina: *adds soap to list of things to hold when chasing Matthew***

**darkblaziken: we haven't really thought of who to come next...**

**snowylavendermist: so no pre-hints...**

**darkblaziken: but still stay tuned...for more action! Fun! Sugar!\**

**Florina: looks who's one a sugar high...*rolls eyes***


	6. Hurray for Potatoes

**Hurray for Potatoes!**

**By darkblaziken and snowylavendermist**It took what seemed like forever, but eventually, after two weeks of hard work, the construction workers managed to get the Ostian Castle rebuilt (with the exact same secret pathways, cobwebs, chipped paint, broken doors and even the same dents in the walls, precise to 3 holy significant figures). For good measure, they even brushed dusty paint and scratched the walls to give it the 'ye olde' castle look.

* * *

And meanwhile, Hector's horde (wife, servants, chef, Oswin and animals, including the royal Ostian earthworms that spend their lives turning Hector's leftovers into Grade AAA fertiliser) had unceremoniously turned up at Eliwood's doorstep and demanded temporary lodging (for a months or two, or three…make that ten) in Castle Pherae, the original ye olde castle that had stone walls, stone floors, stone furniture, and looked as though it belonged to the stone age. Having Sir Marcus and Harken around helped too, the two resembling twin stone statues with stone expressions and fists clenched like stones standing beside Eliwood. And Eliwood, being the pansy prince he is, was of course too nice to refuse his friend's request (or, should I say, very fierce demand with no room for any negotiation but plenty of room for an Armads or two.)

However, accepting this bunch of people had unforeseen effects: for one, the Ostian spies seemed eternally interested in others' bowel activities (time, duration, frequency, velocity, volume, speed, distance…), and the bunch of them regularly hung around the Pherae toilets (grey pieces of lumpy stone with a hole drilled through them) when they were not sent on a mission. It was kind of unnerving; really, to know that someone was hiding in a corner labeling biological diagrams of your constipated expressions, the ones with the cross diagrams, straight pencil lines and no sketchy drawings.

For another, the appetites of Hector and Oswin are not to be underestimated: these are the people who sit at one end of a table which was one-kilometre long piled with their five hundred courses or so of food (never mind what it was; as long as there was _stuff_, they'd eat it) and ate their way down the table literally while the Marchioness of Ostia sat quietly at the other end enjoying a normal meal. While this may not seem strange to the Ostians (who have long since gotten used to the sight), the Pheraens found it extremely and unspeakably disturbing (Like, how _did_ they chomp through the limestone candelabra and the obsidian table legs?). And not to mention they did not enjoy having to rush though their meal before Hector and Oswin swept past before them, leaving absolutely nothing in their wake.

And of course, the cooks were very much tortured by the great amounts of food (if you even call that food) they had to churn out: they were now living 24/7 in the kitchens, or rather, around a huge pit dug just outside Castle Pherae meant for roasting dead wyverns, Pegasus and whatever that made itself available (after all, could Lord Hector ever tell the difference even if you replaced the wyvern with a mound of roasted Royal Ostian earthworms?).

And it was through these food orders that Lowen, Head Chef cum Knight of Pherae cum "that person who never cuts his fringe", learned of the available application for the position of the Head of the Ostian Spy Network.

Normally, Lowen would not have been interested in such a position (poisons, daggers, papers, reports, Zephiel…which of these looked edible… No, not Zephiel. NOT Zephiel.) and would have let the matter pass if not for the fact that he had overheard this conversation:

"Hey, did you know that Lord Hector has raised the salary by another 10 to 40 gold?"

"Huh, I wouldn't apply for the job even if he paid a million."

However, due to the block-up of a very, _very_ thick fringe (that could even filter fine sand and clay particles from dirty water), what Lowen heard was:

"Hey, did you know that Lord Hector has raised the salary by another 10 tons of potatoes?"

"Huh, I wouldn't apply for the job even if he paid a million."

Only one word clicked in Lowen's mind: _potatoes_. Lowen _loved_ potatoes, and he was willing to do _anything_ to add more of those brown, lumpy things to his pet potato collection. Did you know, as of last count, he had ten million nine hundred seventy-seven thousand six thousand four hundred and thirty-one potatoes. They piled up in his room, leaving only a space of his small bed. His goal was to gather enough potatoes to flood Castle Pherae, which he would have done already except for the tiny fact that the big bad wol-nice friendly teacher-of-arms Sir Marcus was still alive.

And so it was that Lowen stopped stirring the big vat of wyvern stew he was making (which had his darling Polly and Peanuts and Pryce and Paige and Pamela and Peter inside—yes, he named his potatoes) and dashed off to find Lord Hector.

Hector stared disbelievingly at the green-haired cavalier in front of him (his hair was the most prominent feature, for obvious reasons), still dressed in a chef's hat and apron and covered with slabs of wyvern fat, oozing onto the expensive stone carpet (prices for white limestone had been increasing exponentially ever since Nergal died, releasing large amounts of putrid acid into the atmosphere which rained down on the limestone and dissolved them into invisible little pieces of little limestone, invisible to all but themselves).

The candidates vying for the position of the Head of the Ostian Spy Network just got weirder and weirder, Hector thought mentally.

He stopped himself from making any outrageous comment just in time. He was pretty sure that Lowen would fail regardless of the task he was assigned (unless it was related to cooking), but since the Erk experience, Hector has become just that little bit wiser (then again, adding a brain cell to a virtually empty brain _was_ a huge improvement, percentage-wise. He was Hector, remember, the prominent and distinguished chairman of Brain-What-Brain club and assistant head director of Count-Your-Brain-Cells-With-Your-Fingers club.). He needed something easy which would cause Lowen to fail, but not cause lasting damage to anyone's property, especially not his.

"Lowen, for your task, I would like you to go to Ostia and inspect the progress of the rebuilding of Castle Ostia." _Heck, he'd probably get lost on the way. Better for me, I won't suffer any property damage then. _

Hector may not have been a very good student in his geography classes, but he did remember one thing: that the borders of Ostia were very, very close to _somewhere_, and a simple wrong turn about a mountain range could land you in somewhere very, _very_ dangerous at the moment.

* * *

Lowen was happy. Happy because there would be no big bad wol- honourable distinguished excellent and dutiful sire of a teacher-of-arms Sir Marcus to constantly pester him for the next three days or so; happy because he would get to see (well, one cannot take the meaning of "see" here literally) Sorrel again, and happy because he was confident that he was going to be the owner of ten tons or so of potatoes soon. He had even come up with nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine names starting with P for his would-be pet potatoes. He just needed one more to complete the ten million.

"Come on, Sorrel, let's go!"

Sorrel whined and neighed from three miles away as the horse threw him fiercely off its back.

"Lowen!" Someone yelled. Oh no, big bad wol- honourable distinguished excellent dutiful sire of a teacher-of-arms Sir Marcus was here! "What are you doing trying to mount the noble steed of the chairman of the Useful-Old-Men-Who-Save-The-World-But-Don't-Die-Club?"

Lowen ran for his life, hands outstretched desperately trying to find Sorrel. Bumping his head six times in a row on one wooden pillar and his arm three times again on the same pillar, he finally mounted Sorrel (bumping his shin in the process) and fled out of the stables, relying purely on his sense of smell of the fresh air outside to tell him where to steer.

* * *

Soon enough, Lowen reached the infamous mountain ranges which bordered Ostia. Of course, "soon" was a relative idea, but in Lowen's terms, being able to almost reach a destination after a few (you mean, 5 billion) collisions into towering walls, upright trees, giggling ladies, toddling kids, barking dogs, neighing horses, smoking chimneys and of course, the classic head-on collisions and _through_ giant boulders in his way. (His horse would probably have more sense not to bump into these things considering that it could actually _see_, but Lowen is a very forceful rider and does have absolute control over the reins.)

His horse whinnied, a strong sense of foreboding in its horse heart.

"Oh, Sorrel, did we take the wrong turn again? Ah, let's go the other way then." With a hard tug at the reins, Lowen drove his horse towards the mountain pass.

In the _wrong_ direction.

* * *

"State your name and purpose!"

What was probably meant to be an intimidating shout came to Lowen as a high-pitched squeak, like a mouse speaking in human language. Frowning, he dismounted, knocking his ankle against a stone on the ground.

"I said, turn around and state your name and purpose!" The high-pitched shrill voice seemed to come from around waist-height, and it made Lowen realize that he was facing the wrong direction. He turned around.

Saint Elimine blessed that holy day that Lowen decided never to cut his fringe. But alas, sadly not everyone had the premonition or the wisdom that he had and had left their eyes wide and clear. For those poor miserable souls that did, they were instantly blinded and lay writhing on the ground in agony, including Sorrel.

The subject that had caused so much distress did not look at all disturbed by the pandemonium caused. If anything, said subject looked extremely pleased with himself, although few would have found any reason for said subject to feel even happy with himself. Said subject was a short lean child, perhaps seven years of age. The face profile looked distinctively masculine, yet the child sported a voluminous bright pink gown trailing to the ankles, complete with a sheer abundance of lace, ribbons, sequins, bows, feathers and glitter. On the feet, he wore cute little dancing slippers, pink too, with two silver pompoms adorning the front. He wore his hair in several short braids, tied with pink ribbons. An old kitchen pot, black from soot and dented, adorned his head, like an egg-shaped helmet to fit an egg-shaped head. In one hand, he clenched a piece of silver shoulder armour, wielding it like a shield. In his other hand, he carried (dragged rather, or attempted to hoist) a heavy-looking double-edged iron sword. With every movement he made, the bangles and various accessories hanging from every single surface of him jingled.

"Uh, whoever's there, my name is Lowen and I'm here to check on the progress of the castle," he replied, obviously facing the wrong height (blame the amount of hair for dispersing the voice and disrupting the wavelength, making it sound lower than it actually was).

The little boy narrowed his eyes. (Of course, physical descriptions here are for the reader's benefit, not Lowen's.) "So, are you a spy? I'm going to have to report you, you know! Klein, stop trampling on the grass and come here!" The last part was directed at a two-year-old toddler dressed in another pink petticoat, complete with lace trimming and shiny silver buckles (oh, what was wrong with their dress sense), who was happily stomping on the freshly-mown lawn, making the soles of his feet green. The toddler obeyed, coming over to look up at the confused cavalier.

"Big bwother no eyes," he burbled happily.

Lowen, by now, was utterly confused. Suddenly, he felt as though something was poking into his…waist region.

Something inside him, possibly a very loud alarm, went off as he shrank back in was still young, and still had plenty of time, but he did want to marry a woman with a potato fetish (just like his) one day and have plenty of little kids running around named after potatoes (like Russel, Idaho, Sweet, Mouldy, Tasty…) and if he wanted kids, there was _something_ down there that he must protect with his life…or hands.

Instinctively he backed off. "Whoa, whoa! I'm not a spy, I was sent by Lord Hector!" he defended, reaching out for his horse (who, incidentally, had decided to escape the moment it realized where they were at now).

"And you dare say that you're not a spy? What does Ostia have against us? Why has Lycia sent you here?" the boy said, advancing towards Lowen aggresively, brandishing the two-handed sword wildly but and without the slightest control. Lowen could not see him, but he could hear the swish of the heavy blade, and it was getting closer, closer…Farewell Idaho! Farewell Russel! So long Mouldy! Goodbye Tasty! All of you are going to be gone with the wind soon…

"PERCIVAL! WHERE ARE YOU NOW! AND WHERE IS KLEIN! I HAVEN'T FINISHED DRESSING THE TWO OF YOU UP YET!" A near-ultrasound shriek emerged from behind, something that even managed to pierce Lowen's natural hair earmuffs and throw him onto the floor, covering his ears (through his fringe) in sheer horror and agony. The little boy looked back in horror. "It's the she-devil! Klein! Come with me now! We must hide!" He grabbed the toddler's hand and ran away as fast as he could, only to be tripped over by his overlong dress.

The said she-devil came upon the two of them, pink hair gleaming in the sunlight and holding up two curly wigs dyed pink and purple. "Come now! I must finish the two of you up! And what are YOU doing here?" she spat at Lowen, whom she had just spotted.

Lowen would have recognized the ten-thousand decibel voice anywhere. "Uh, Serra…I'm here to check on the castle…"

"Huh? The castle's perfectly fine! You're lying! You're here to sneak a peek at my gorgeous radiant self, right? You were thinking naughty thoughts, right? You PERVERT!" she screamed (not even pausing to think that she was talking to _Lowen_ who was virtually blind), thwacking him on the head hard with her staff.

"Serra, that's enough! Stop harassing my nephew and my son! And Percival, stop taking the training swords without my permission! They're too heavy for you! And my shoulder armour too! It's not a shield, boy!" came another voice, this one firm and with a sort of finality to it. The silver-haired mage strode over, scooping Percival and Klein up and giving Serra a pointed stare. "Serra, Erk needs his medicine now. Could you _please_ go and give it to him?"

Serra pouted. "But they looked SO CUTE in that! The two of them are just so adorable and squishable and glompable and…"Serra stopped as she saw Pent's expression, which promised a week of no Erk. "FINE! I'll go give Erky his daily dose of extra-dazzling-pink-and-gorgeous power-up!"

"…Yeah, that's better…marginally, considering that Erk is currently in a self-induced state of comatose because of her. Honestly, she is turning to some rather frightening paedophilic tendencies…" Pent muttered to himself, then spotted the half-dazed Lowen. "Oh, Lowen! Why would you be here?"

Lowen shook his head. "Wait…is that Lord Pent?"

"Why, yes, of course. I apologize for the trauma you suffered just now. Do you need to come in and take a rest?"

"So…this is Etruria?"

"Why of course! This is Castle Reglay. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? Louise will be delighted to see you. She has yet to ask you for the recipe for your wyvern stew and sausage and liver pudding."

Lowen shook his head again. "Oh, dear, excuse me…I've got an urgent errand to make…see you later, Lord Pent!" he rambled before he stumbled off, much to the confusion of Pent.

And for once, he headed for the _right_ direction.

* * *

"Anyway, it's not a big loss," Oswin consoled his fellow failed applicant for the position. "It's only forty gold a month, I think you're better off as a Pheraen Knight."

Lowen stopped sniffing and rubbing his (non-existent) eyes all of a sudden. "Wait...repeat what you just said."

"...That you're better off as a Pheraen Knight?"

"No, before that."

"That it's only forty gold a month?"

Lowen froze for a full five seconds, shook his head vigorously and dislodged the chunk of hair blocking his ear canal. "Say that...again."

Oswin was losing his patience, and that was certainly a sight to see, since this orange block was usually way too slow to ever lose his patience. "I said, IT'S ONLY FORTY GOLD A MONTH!" he hollered into Lowen's ear (which he could not see) so loudly that the construction workers at Ostia heard him and paused their work for a moment. However, thanks to his shock-absorbing layer of hair, the volume of Oswin's shout came to Lowen as only about sixty decibels. But for the first time, he managed to hear it clearly.

"Oh, so it's forty gold...not potatoes?"

"...Not potatoes."

"Whaat? B-but I had even come up with ten million names for all of them!" Lowen wailed at pulled at his hair. However, owing to the amazing quality of his hair, not a single strand came out. Oswin frowned, as though trying very hard to remember something.

"Wait, didn't you say it was nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine names? You couldn't think of the last name, right?"

"No…I've managed to get one." Oswin stared at him incredulously.

"What, _another_ name starting with P?"

"Yeah…though I didn't actually think of it, I just came across it…Don't you think the name Percival sounds so sweet? For a cute little black potato with gold-trimmed armour?"

* * *

** Author's note**

**DarkBlaziken: And that sums up the chapter! I utterly desecrated my favourite character for your entertainment! Happy now? Happy now? *runs off to a corner to wail***

**Matthew: Huh? Lowen is your _favourite character?_**

**snowylavendermist: nah, she's referring to Percival. And his yet non-existent black warhorse. The cross-dressing was a reference to Arthurian legend in case you didn't realize (the Arthurian Percival grew up dressed like a girl because his mother didn't want him to become a knight), and for the purpose of this fic, Percival is Klein's cousin. Well, they look enough like cousins anyway.**

**DarkBlaziken: *stops wailing in despair* Either ways, I hope you liked that chapter and managed to get a few (if not a lot of) laughs from it! Stay tuned for the next chapter! Flo, who are we doing now?**

**snowylavendermist: *evil grin* well, that would kill the suspense, wouldn't it?**

**Matthew: this does not bode well…by the way, feel free to request for a character! But if I feel that the character is too boring, they aren't going to audition him or her.**

**snowylavendermist: *bashes Matt on the head with a rubber hammer* Stop being so ego, Matt! Don't listen to him. Requests welcome though!**

**DarkBlaziken: Rememeber…big Brother is watching! Don't forget! *points at Lowen who is currently playing grope-the-doorknob**

**Klein: Ewen dough big bwother no eyes?**

**Everyone bursts into laughter at Lowen.**

**Klein: I go confort big bwother. Ferae and Eturia vewi good frens!**

**Everyone stops laughing and stares.**

**snowylavendermist: This guy is one diplomatic creature! Hmm…he probably going to end up as ambassador of Etruria or something…**


	7. Bartre's Quest for Interior Designing

**Bartre's Quest of Interior Decorating!**

Hector huffed as he glanced at the piece of parchment before him. So Lowen had failed in his mission, but Castle Ostia had fortunately been rebuilt successfully with little problem. It now stood there on the original plot of land, resplendent, gorgeous, dazzling, radiant, but empty.

Snorting, Hector glared at the seven-figure digit that stood out amongst the sea of words. While all the other letters and numbers had been in miniscule print (the kind that you need to employ dust mites to help you translate), the glaring seven-digit figure was bolded, underlined, italicized, shadowed, embossed, engraved and outlined (please don't ask how this is possible), and it was a hideous neon green colour covered with pink sparkles.

The things people do to grab attention.

Hector wondered if he could sue the people who sent him the bill for compensation over temporary loss of eyesight.

Reluctantly, he placed his signature on the dotted line, sadly giving away a third of the Ostian treasury into the hands of the construction workers. The other third would have to be reserved for the furnishing, while the last bit should be reserved for rainy days, for the purchase of orange umbrellas, baby blue raincoats and daffodil Wellingtons.

He kind of missed Ostia, and he couldn't wait to get back to his nice little warm cosy Castle. The Pheraen castle was draughty, cold, permanently flooding and too spooky. It leaked everywhere, flooded everywhere, and was warm nowhere. Look, even his beautiful Armads was starting to rust in this horrific damp! How did Eliwood live here? Oh yeah, by warming up the castle with his flame-coloured hair. Haha.

"Lord Hector!" Oswin panted, opening the door. His armour had started to rust too, although his orange armour camouflaged the spots of brown rust. It just made him look permanently dirty. "A former acquaintance is here to apply for the position of head of the spy network and-"

Oswin was promptly shoved aside, rolling onto the floor like an orange ball. "Ohhh…" Oswin cried in despair, limbs flailing all over. "Urgh!" He tried. "Urgh!" He tried again. "URGH!" He gave up trying and floundered on the ground, rolling around like an overgrown orange with momentum. "I can't get up anymore!" Sobbing into the lacy handkerchief he carried in his shoulder pad, Oswin promptly rolled over to the door, wedged himself in the door, got stuck in the door, and cried again. "Oh, Mayday! Mayday! SOS!"

With a mighty tug from the mysterious person blocked by the ball named Oswin, Oswin went flying through the air in a small arc, bounced on the floor, bounced down the stairs, bounced again at the bottom of the stairs, and promptly a part of the stone castle collapsed.

The very foundations of Pherae trembled at the series of unfortunate events.

Whoever that managed to push Oswin aside, pull Oswin out and cause, indirectly, the collapse of a part of the Castle, must be a man of great aptitude, Hector mused silently. Hehe, he must be the man I am looking for.

"Lord Hectare!" The roar came from none other than a warrior with sandy hair and a very big mouth and a very big skull (note, his skull is big, not his brain, one is the casing, and one is the substance).

"Bartre?" Hector's heart sank rapidly like Eliwood in water. "What are you-Are you the one applying for-Why are you-"

"Imma applying for the person of head of spy programme!" Bartre yelled, stomping into the room. "You needed head, Canas said I have big head. So I can be your big head!" Without waiting for an invitation, Bartre sat on the couch, which collapsed into a heap of powdered stone. "Mmhmm…" Bartre said appreciatively. "That's a nice table." He lifted the table and placed it wholesale in his mouth as though it was as small as an chicken egg. "Yum…tastes of marble."

Hector was about to point out that it was marble when Bartre burped, and a small piece of half-eaten marble, still covered in spittle, dropped out of his mouth, rolled merrily on the floor and stopped 2 inches away from Hector's right foot.

"Oh hehe, sorry," Bartre walked over, picked up the stone and ate it. "Canas says, don't waste food."

Hector refrained from mentioning that marble wasn't exactly placed under food, more of under _building materials_. "Okay, Bartre," Hector cleared his throat. "You're applying for the position of head of Ostian spy netwok." Bartre shook his head, then nodded his head in affirmation. "Why do you want to be a spy?"

"Because mah poor daughter Fir has no food. I have no food. I have no wife anymore. Karla underground, sleeping forever. I need money to buy food." Bartre broke out in noisy sniffles, teardrops the size of Florina's pegasus rolling down his cheeks. "I and Fir have been eating stones and boulders, poor quality limestone and sandstone. We grow as thin as limestone. We grow as ugly as sandstone."

Hearing his words, Hector's heart softened a little towards the warrior crying before him. Maybe he could give him a task, something to do…maybe Bartre had something beneath that vast bone structure called his skull…maybe Bartre may become the best spymaster Ostia has ever had!

Hector felt strangely happy as he thought of the perfect task for Bartre. "Okay, Bartre, this is what your test is," he chirped merrily. "The new furniture and the old items that were rescued from the fire will be arriving at Castle Ostia today, but I am fronting a campaign to reduce obesity and I am supposed to attend their opening ceremony today by eating six tons of celery and leeks. Cool eh? So I need you to help me put the furniture back into place! If you do a good job, you're hired."

Bartre roared and stamped his feet in approval as he slowly took in the idea. It sounded certainly like an easy job, and he and Fir would not have to ingest rocks anymore, while Hector gets free labour.

It _really _did sound like a good idea.

For a joke.

* * *

Bartre squinted at the mountain of objects that had spilled from where they were dumped at the main hall all the way into the courtyard. The items that royalty possessed certainly reached proportions he had never before imagined. Like, why would anyone need different spoons to eat chocolate almond cake and strawberry sponge cake?

Bartre scratched his head as he picked up a bronze sieve and a moldy hamburger. Well, he certainly knew where these went, and he needed to start somewhere.

Merrily, he slung the items over his shoulder (squishing the hamburger in he process and crushing the sieve into a hole-ly plate and headed into the castle.

* * *

Hector sighed in satisfaction as he admired his castle. How he missed his castle, that warm cozy little wyvern nest of his that reeked permanently of those lovely-smelling onions and his late brother's feet.

He crossed the threshold gingerly, and entered the castle. Did they remember to put the cologne he had specially designed that smelled like Uther's feet? Ahh…they did. The castle was covered with a wholesome heartwarming delicious scent of old socks and Uther's sweat. How lovely!

On the verge of tears, Hector threw himself down on the ground, preparing to kiss the carpet with fondness. His warm lips felt with cold hard draughty stone, not unlike the floor of the heathen hellhole known as Castle Pherae.

"What!" Hector shouted in shock and fury. Who dared remove his carpet, made of the finest fibres known to the world and dyed in the colours of the Ostian crest? Outrageous! A sacrilege!

"Ah!" Bartre yelled. "Lord Hectare, you have come!"

Hector, too busy mourning the disappearance of his patriotic carpet, did not correct Bartre's misconception of his name. He looked up to glare menacingly at the decorator of the castle, only to nearly faint in horror.

"What is that _thing_ doing in the hall?" Hector demanded, pointing a shaky finger at said thing that was behind Bartre.

Said thing whined unhappily at being referred to as a _thing_. It was the Royal Pegasus of the 245th Marchioness of Ostia, 2 times winner of the Noble Steed Award, 7 times champion of National Singing Competition, Huey Isidor Candelabra Minxi Irena Blanche Bai. _Why_ can't people treat it respectfully and remember its name?

"That?" Bartre grinned. "That's your couch, Lord Hectare."

Huey snorted at being referred to as _that_.

"You made that witless winged horse into my couch?" Hector roared.

Huey promptly trotted over and avenged the insult by lifting its noble hoof and giving Hector a noble kick in his shin, causing the marquess to double over in pain, his face turning an unpleasant shade of red, not unlike Jaffar's hair.

It was not a witless winged horse. Firstly, Hector was in no place to comment; Huey had two functioning brain cells, he had one and a half. Secondly, Huey was winged, thanks for stating the obvious, everyone so wonders what those feathery things on its back are. Thirdly, it was not a horse. A horse was an equine with four legs and no wings. It was a noble steed with four legs and wings, not an _equine_. The _equines_ were their long-forgotten cousins who had accidentally had the misfortune to be born without wings because they won't noble enough. End of story.

Sniffing, Huey trotted back to its place and settled down, wings tucked at its side, and glared at Hector.

* * *

"Is this my kitchen?" Hector rubbed his eyes. And again. And again. Someone advise him to stop rubbing before he rubbed his eyes (already tiny) out of existence and turned into Lowen.

Huey trotted over again and raised a hoof. Hector immediately placed his hands securely by his side. Huey trotted away.

"But the place's empty!" Hector declared indignantly. "No food, no utensils, no cutlery…nothing! And WHERE'S MY BARRELS OF BUTTER?"

Bartre licked the corners of his mouth, where there was still yellow grease. "Hmm? Butter? Oh. Here!" He pointed a finger at his bulging stomach and patted it contentedly. "Very good butter. Best butter. Oily like Sonia's voice. Yellow like pee. Very good sandwiches too. Tasty apples. Delicious cake. Nice steak…"

Hector threw open the larder door to find the place completely free of anything beside dust, dust mites and a lonely spider staring back at him with eight sets of goo-goo-ga-ga eyes.

He promptly sat down on the floor, hard. How was he to survive without food?

Just as his immense bottom touched the ground, a piece of flimsy red silk dropped down from the ceiling and landed on his face.

"What the-" He sputtered, holding up the piece of satin. It was another piece of Florina's lingerie, the replica of the one Oswin had spoiled by squeezing his vast self into the constricting fabric. "Why does my wife's underclothes fall from the sky when I sit on the floor?" He stood up and took a step towards Bartre, lingerie clenched in his fist.

As his huge feet made contact with the floor, another piece of garment dropped from the ceiling. This time, he recognized it to be his purple and pink striped boxer shorts.

Bartre scratched his head. "Well, I thought they looked pretty. Like Christmas decorations. So I placed them up, up, up!" He clapped his hands as he pointed to the ceiling. "So pretty!"

Hector looked up and saw what seemed to be half of his wardrobe hanging from cracks in the ceiling. Florina's underclothes were there, pieces of silk dangling in the middle of nowhere, creating a rainbow of colours. His own boxer shorts were up there too, creating a colourful patchwork of cotton and silk. And oh Saint Elimine! Bartre had even the wisdom to place Hector's royal Ostian patriotic underpants amongst the rest, the one that had the Ostian crest sewed everywhere and the very one that he wore on the outside for his coronation to show his love for Ostia.

Did anyone mention the sheer number of ladies who had fainted at the occasion?

Right now, Hector himself felt like fainting.

* * *

Alright. Hector took a deep breath. He had seen the worst, experienced the worst and known the worst. His royal crown was currently decorating a fir tree in the garden, Florina's jewellery were being used as baubles for the fir tree. If anyone wanted to know, Christmas was not celebrated in Elibe.

The greasy pots and pans had been found hanging in the wardrobes, serving their purposes as armour. Or in Bartre's demonstrations, Hector was supposed to go around wearing a pot to cover his front, a pan to cover his back, while Florina required three pots: one for the top, one for the bottom front, one for the bottom back. In Bartre's words, it was called 'self-defense'. Hector was not amused.

The walls of the rooms, originally a pristine white, where splashed with red splotches, in what Bartre termed as the gothic theme. Hector felt that it was no Gothic theme, and instead his house felt like a murder crime scene.

Their beds had been shifted into the dungeons too, where it was draughty, leaky, dirty and cold, because Bartre insisted that coldness and wetness was good for the soul. If that was the case, Hector prayed that he would wake up tomorrow with no soul.

The worst of everything was that he had scarcely stepped into a room after opening the door, when a shower of potatoes would rain on his head. "What is this?" Hector had roared as potatoes assaulted his skull, killing whatever brain cell that was left in there. "A legacy by Lowen?"

Bartre had grinned, "Absolutely right Lord Hectare! Did you know, one Hectare can grow 6000 potatoes? You make Lowen very happy if you grow potatoes."

He was back where he started, in the living room, with Huey eyeing him dispassionately. He had seen everything, wanted to cry at everything…if he was in the habit of tearing his hair out at the slightest thing (like Marcus or Harken), he would have found himself as bald as Wallace.

But he had not found one thing. And it was bothering him deeply.

"Bartre." He asked slowly. "Where is my Armads?"

"Are Matt's?" Bartre repeated. "What are Matt's? I go return them! Where does he live?"

"Not are Matt's," Hector said, flustered. "ARMADS! You know, the big axe, with one handle, one blade, good at killing dragons like Eliwood's wife?"

"Oh!" Realisation dawned on Bartre. "That one! I know! Come!"

They journeyed through the castle, catching pieces of innerwear that fell on their heads, wearing twin pots over their heads to dodge the showers of potatoes and arrived in the toilet.

"Ta-dah!" Bartre proclaimed triumphantly. "Armads! The new generation hair-remover!" He proceeded to demonstrate by taking the axe and lifting his shirt. "You swipe it before your big chest and no chest hair anymore!" He patted his stubbly chest and continued. "If you no chest hair like macho me, use it to shave armpit hair!" Before Hector could stop him, Bartre had raised his arms, and with a swift swipe, off fell his armpit hair in a brown tangled mass. "Now the other one!" Another clump of armpit hair fell onto the ground limply.

It took all of Hector's restraint not to kill the warrior there and then. He took one look at his Armads, and conveniently threw up into the toilet bowl.

Bits of brown hair were still sticking to the blade.

Not surprisingly, Hector dismissed Bartre, although he had never been in his service anyway. He had even given him a wonderful stipend of 50 000 gold just to tell him to stay away from Ostia and settle down in Pherae instead, where he can try his shaving skills with Lowen. He did not care whose axe it was that was mutilated, so long as it was not his. If they wished, feel free to steal Harken's steel axe and use it to shave leg hair.

Having chased Bartre away, Hector faced the mess that was his home and groaned. It looked like they were going to stay in Castle Pherae for a long time…

* * *

**snowlavendermist: Heyo folks! Darkblaziken is currently absent in faraway Merryland with his grandpapa and grandmama, so she can't be here with us.**

**Matthew: I see. Hmm...Bartre is epic fail. But of course, my former young master is worse. Anyone with a brain cell will know that Bartre cannot be trusted with anything except fighting. But of course, my young master has apparently 1 & 1/2 brain cells. Maybe the 1 brain cell stopped functioning and he's left with 1/2 a brain cell. Lemme check...**

**snowylavendermist: Stop annoying Hector Matt! Go entertain your permanent fixtures.**

**Permanent fixtures aka Chad, Ray, Lugh, Cath: Whine! Uncle Mattie! Uncle Mattie! Whine whine whine!**

**Matthew: Urgh! Okay little midgets what do you want? I fed you, I burped you, I cradled you, now what? What? AGAIN? *tears hair in despair* I just changed your *bleep* nappies a *bleep* five minutes ago!**

**snowylavendermist: *smiles* Have fun Matt! For our next contestant, we have someone making a special appearance! A round of applause for this mysterious guest who has taken a long voyage all the way just to see how retarded Elibians are! *dodges shower of elfire, fire, lightning, staves, screaming, shouting, bashing, axes, lances, swords, dragon fire, arrows, lunas and ereshkigal***

**Matthew: See ya folks! Seeing that she's a little knocked out...*hops away with four soiled nappies in right hand and four clean nappies in left hand***


	8. The Foreigner

**The Foreigner (in which a foreign guest tries his luck...)**

"Home sweet home!" Lord Hector roared as he lifted the heavy (this adjective does not appear in Hector's vocabulary) oak table in a crushing hug and promptly broke the entire piece of furniture. The poor table (who had done nothing in its entire life but wait for its master to arrive home) crumbled into sawdust.

A few mice ran out from the crevice in the wall and grabbed handfuls of sawdust. They too, had returned to their old nest and now needed new bedding to replace those that had been burnt by Erk or eaten by Bartre.

Lord Hector smiled contentedly as he surveyed his study room. Everything was exactly the same, to his utmost delight. Look! That dark patch on the carpet, created when he puked on the carpet when he was five, was there too! And there! Hanging nicely on the wall was that picture of Serra that he had always tacked there so that he could throw his Armads at it whenever he felt angry enough. Of course, the highly efficient builders had not forgotten all about the thick cracks in the wall that were made when he missed Serra's picture, which was…pretty much most of the time.

Thankfully, now they had enlarged Serra's picture so that it would facilitate Lord Hector's attempts to vent his frustrations by enabling him to hit it more often (0.00000001% increase is still an _increase_), but not so much that everyone who came in was momentarily blinded by the horrible picture and proceeded to queue up at the royal Ostian toilets to have a puking date with the esteemed Mister Toilet Bowl and the distinguished Master Steel Flush Lever Junior, the Senior having been broken when Hector once used it as a weapon to try and hit Matthew. Obviously, he missed, despite the fact that Master Steel Flush Lever Senior was, as his name suggests, made of steel, easily portable, very long and steady, and a perfect weapon to bludgeon people to death.

Speaking of Matthew…Hector still needed a spymaster. So far, everyone ranging from Vile Pink-haired Devil to No Eyes Big Bro had all failed in their respective tasks, regardless of whether it had been so easy a flea could have done it, or so hard that only Hector himself (he beamed in self-pride) could have done it.

He needed someone soon, and he needed someone fast.

Right on cue, Oswin appeared at the door. "Lord Hector!" He stumbled onto the floor, prostrating himself.

"NO!" Hector jumped onto the chair. Chair crumbled sawdust. Little white mice rejoiced at more free bedding material.

"When I meant someone," Hector pleaded to no one in particular. "I didn't mean _him_…Saint Elimine protect my eyes from any more outrageous disguises." An image of Oswin in a pink ballerina dress and tutu with hairy unshaved legs appeared in Hector's mind.

Another dark patch was formed on the carpet, the sister of the former dark patch, as Hector proceeded to conveniently open his mouth and his stomach heaved, throwing out everything there was in his stomach.

The mice squealed at the prospect of shifting through smelly half-digested food for anything still edible.

"Lord Hector!" Oswin said, muffled voiced by the carpet that he was currently kissing unintentionally. "There's someone outside who wants to apply for the position of Ostian spymaster." He added in a fearful whisper. "He's a foreigner; we don't know him."

Hector was about to ask how did Oswin know that the man was a foreigner when he remembered Oswin walked through Ostia with a 6 kilometre list and did a roll call for everyone in Ostia every morning. _Right, no wonder._

Hector wondered how the person would look like, considering that all he had seen so far were armoured people with either big hair or big skulls but unfortunately no big brains. Amused, he prepared to sit down on the armchair.

"Can't you watch it, you lumbering elephant?"

Hector leap up wildly. "The armchair talks!" he screeched. "I have a magical armchair!"

"Thanks for thinking I am your beloved fairy godmother but no thanks." A thin young man, about Matthew's age, said smoothly as he lounged in the armchair. He flicked his blue ponytail. "Are you the lordling looking for a spy?"

Hector puffed to his full height. "I am a LORD, not a lordling!" he bellowed.

"Same thing," the young man waved carelessly. "Main point, are you the one looking for a spy?"

Hector nodded suspiciously. "Who the heck are you?"

The man leapt to his feet gracefully. "I am…Comb, at your service," he swept Hector a gallant bow.

"Tomb?" Hector misheard. "Like the white square rectangle they use to carry dead people?"

"COMB!" Comb shouted, frowning.

"Womb?" Hector said again. "Like the thing Uther says they use to hold babies…Wait, isn't that for females only?"

"COMBBBBBBB!" Comb bellowed, flipping his ponytail in distress. "Aren't you a bit young to have hearing problems?"

"OH COMB!" Hector finally heard correctly. "Sorry, a little deaf this morning." He dug three fingers into his ear canal and dislodged a ton of yellow earwax. He repeated the process for the other ear. "Better. Comb? Isn't that that that that that toothy colourful small thing that you use in front of a mirror for something like to make your hair either stand straight or stay flat or become poofy or grow curly…"

Oswin held up a small plastic comb.

"Yeah! That was exactly what a meant!" Hector grabbed the comb. "C.O.M.B?"

Comb ignored him. "You wanted a spy?"

"Yeah but-" Hector tried to say.

"What's the test?" Comb lounged back on the armchair.

"Bern is doing something concerning Ostia and I want to find out what it is," Hector pouted. "Selfish disgusting vile wormy things refusing to share information. They even circulate their dictionaries internally only!"

"Zephiel was having a barbecue party yesterday in his backyard and he didn't invite you," Comb rattled off. "Zephiel secretly calls you a flabby young toothless elephant holding a blunt metal plate. Zephiel secretly likes the Ostian crest. Zephiel wants your wife as his concubine. Zephiel also wants Lord Eliwood's wife as his concubine. Zephiel even wants Lord Pent's wife as his concubine-"

"Does Zephiel want his mum as his concubine too?" Hector complained.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Comb shrugged. "His sister too."

Hector gasped, momentarily creating a black hole sucking in everything around him. Oswin fainted on the floor promptly, fearing for the safety of his old 99-year old mother. Would she be picked to be Zephiel's 10030874th concubine too? Oh of all the horrors he had ever heard in his 33 years!

And he had once thought King Desmond was awful for having two wives.

"Alright!" Hector interrupted. "So you are to go to Bern and produce a secret report for me with all of Bern's activities. If you do a satisfactory job, you're hired!"

Comb stood up slowly. "Bye then! See you in a week!"

"Wait!" Hector called after him. "Aren't you going to wear disguises?" He held up various convenient articles of clothing. "Like a dairymaid dress? Or a ballerina tutu so you can pretend to be one of Zephiel's imperial court Irish tap dancers?"

"Irish tap dancers don't wear ballerina tutus," Oswin informed him promptly before returning into a dead faint on the floor.

"Or a lingerie to pretend that you're a concubine of his?" Hector held up more clothes. "Or this patchy thing! You can pretend you are imperial dairy farm cow and MOOOOOOve your way through his dairy field and pretend you're a lost cow who was sent to his chamber to provide him with his uber-fresh daily milk."

Comb gave them the look as though they were mad, waved and exited, making a 'L' with his fingers.

"What did he mean?" Hector pondered curiously, looking at the 'L'.

* * *

Hector waited in anticipation for the week to end. The man, Comb, was promising. He acted a little like Matthew even. If he was half as good as Matthew, Hector was never going to let him leave as long as he was still sane.

"Looking for me?" A two-inch thick report dropped onto the parchments before Hector. A blue ponytail hung in midair before Hector.

Comb carefully lowered himself from the ceiling back onto the floor. "There you go. Your report."

Hector flipped through the report gingerly. Comb had included EVERYTHING Hector wanted. There was biometric data, influence, brain wave patterns, dietary patterns, thoughts, dreams, predictions, next steps in action, habits…all in a two inch report! JOY! FINALLY! After so many months of combing (haha) through 3 mile thick reports consisting of biological diagrams of diarrhea cross-section, this was something worth waiting for!

"Oh, by the way," Comb mentioned. "I emptied their treasury and gave it to common people. So currently Bern is broke, considering that they still owe some rich usurer named Farina half a million gold, with 10% interest. That Zephiel's Maths sucks by the way. He still thinks he's rich." Comb sniggered. "He's going to be very rich with debts soon."

"So they won't have money to hold barbecue parties? YES!" Hector punched a fist into the air. "HA! THAT"S WHAT YOU GET FOR NOT INVITING ME YE SUCKAR!"

Comb raised an eyebrow and coughed. "I was thinking something of…" he did a perfect imitation. "HA! THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR TRYING TO STOCK MONEY TO BUY WEAPONS TO INVADE MY DARLING MOTHERLAND YEHHH SUCKARRRRR!"

"Same thing," Hector waved his hand and laughed triumphantly. "You included their weakness too?"

Comb nodded. "Zephiel obviously has a serious fetish for stealing other's people wives, that immoral bastard, so all you have to do is send someone's wife there in lingerie and a dagger and kill him there and then. He also has serious bowel problems. So you just need to get someone to eat their toilets continuously so that Zephiel can't poo and then he'll surrender unconditionally. I heard there's a professional toilet eater named Bartre in Pherae or something." He suggested. "Or you could do my favourite. Ask some smart magic user to fire pink elfire painting-for-dummies-like-Lord-Hector bombs at Bern and paint everything there pink. Then send the armies of clerics with jugs of glitter and glitter everything sparkly and gay. And dress everyone in his house in fur to make him sneeze twenty-four hours seven. He'll surrender in 2 seconds. He'll die in three in 3."

"You're hired!" Hector roared in delight, reaching his arms out to embrace Comb.

"Oh uhh, sorry to tell you this," Comb apologized, moving out of Hector's radius. "But I'm not staying."

Hector's mouth grazed the floor. IMPOSSIBLE! After so long, Comb was the first proficient guy who could get the job done like Matthew and he was LEAVING? NEVER!

"I won't let you!" Hector bawled, catapulting himself on Comb, and grabbed Comb's ankle tightly. "I won't let go!"

"I SEE A HOT GUY!" The very foundations of Ostia shook as a shrill shriek smashed all the glass and windows and unhinged all the doors.

Serra appeared at the front of the room, carrying a pink fluffball that was glowing dubiously. "My hotness detector detects a hot guy…" She scanned the room and her eyes landed beadily on Comb. "YOU! HOT GUY! MINE!" She catapulted herself at Comb, who dodged.

Serra promptly flew out of the de-glassed window. She landed in the garden with a sickening crunch.

"Ouch…" Comb muttered. "Five stories…wonder if she's dead…"

"HERE I AM!" The same shrill cry sounded. Serra appeared at the door, as though by magic, again. She was slightly bruised, slightly bloodied, slightly dirty, but very much conscious and alert and alive. Somehow she had managed to fall down five stories, land in a heap and journey up five stories again all in a matter of two seconds. And she was clutching that pink hairball.

She launched herself at Comb and clutched his legs tightly, planting little kisses on his trousers. "You will NEVAR leave me," she kissed passionately, squealing.

Comb looked very disturbed and tried to move, but the two weights on his legs just won't move. He looked out of the gates at the far-away gates of Ostia. His portal was just outside the gate. If he wanted to see Neimi again, he had to find a way to get to the portal, even with these two holding him down.

* * *

"Aren't you two going to let go?" Comb panted. "I'm at the Ostian gates." It was hot, sweltering in fact, and the two weights did not help. One weighed possibly a million metric tons, and the other looked small but seemed to be made of lead, oak and stone all mixed together.

"I SAID I'M AT THE OSTIAN GATES!" He bellowed at the two weights at his legs. "AREN"T YOU GOING TO LET GO?"

"NEVER!" Serra screamed in hysterics. "HANDSOME! YOU'RE MINE!"

"NEVER!" Hector bellowed in perfect coordination with Serra. "COMB YOU PROMISED TO STAY!"

"My name is COLM and I never agreed to stay!" he shouted in frustration. "AND I AM NOT YOURS! I AM NEIMI'S!"

Serra raised a stave venomously. "Where is that Neimi? I shall go murder her. Then you and I can be together forever!"

"YOU DID!" Hector threw a tantrum like a spoilt child. "YOU DID! I KNOW YOU DID!"

Colm shook his head in sheer desperation. He looked back at the two trails behind him, one sharp and made by the axe hanging off Hector's back, the other covered with a mess of lipstick, glitter and body cream. He had come so far, twenty miles! But the gates were just half a metre away and the two were not letting go!

He scrunched his hair in frustration. "NEIMI…" he moaned. "SAVE MEEEEE!" He'll never make it to the portal. He'll never make it out of Ostia. He'll never return to Magvel. _Damn._

A butcher was staring at him with a strange look in his eyes, at the stall beside the gates.

Colm got a sudden brainwave. "Hey!" he called, tossing the seller a bag of 5000 gold. _Screw the gold; I want my wife._ "Could you sell me the biggest heaviest wyvern leg you have in your stall?"

With a stranger look than before, the seller walked out and handed him a leg of wyvern as big as himself.

"Oof!" Colm nearly fell on his bottom at the weight. Thankfully, there were two weights supporting him. "Are you two really not going to let go?"

"Never!" they both yelled in perfect coordination.

"Did they practise this before or something?" Colm muttered. The seller sniggered suspiciously. "Well…here goes nothing!" He took careful aim and dropped the wyvern leg on the two heads.

Yellow fats oozed, arms fell and grips slackened. Colm stared dispassionately at two knocked-out Ostians. "Sorry," he shrugged. "I want my wife." He took a large step through the gates and stepped into the portal. "NEIMI! HERE I COME!"

The portal glittered, then closed, taking Colm along with it and leaving two very unconscious people in the middle of the Ostian road surrounded by yellow fats.

The butcher sniggered.

* * *

**Matthew: LOLOLOLOLOL. *smirks* I knew it. I'm a trendsetter. *flicks peanut butter hair***

**Colm: Shuddup. If you hadn't left I wouldn't have had to do that.**

**snowylavendermist: The two of you amuse me.**

**Colm: Make the person after me suffer just as badly.**

**snowylavendermist: Nope, you're special. **

**Colm: Damn. Couldn't you have picked someone like Joshua or Ephraim? Someone famous and fangirled?**

**snowylavendermist: And thrash my favourite males no 2 and no 3? No thanks.**

**Matthew: Am I no. 1?**

**Legault: Obviously not. *smirks***

**Matthew: She's not going to let you off either, you know. *glares* I don't trust you. *lifts limbs* Chad, Cath, Lugh, Ray, be careful of this person.**

**Lugh & Ray: Grandpapa Legault!**

**Legault: *frowns* I'm just 25 you know...*frown***

**snowylavendermist: Anyways, for the next one I'm still thinking of who to audition for the job. I was having some ideas but thanks to _some people_ they are now all gone. *glares at squabbling assassins* See ya! And review please! Darkblaziken will be back soon. Chill, I miss her loads too! T.T**


	9. And the Dictionary Says

**And the Dictionary Says...**

Wringing the towel as though the piece of cloths had done him a mortal injustice, Hector rubbed his face violently for the Nth time. He glared at his reflection in fury. After two weeks (two weeks!), he still stank of yellow animal fats and uncooked wyvern flesh, all because of that stupid Womb, no Tomb, no Comb…or was it Bomb? Whatever his name was! Hector smelt like Heath, and it was _not_ a good thing. He didn't mind the part that he smelt like Heath; it was more of other part that disturbed him…

"_Hey!" A blond wyvern rider landed before him. "Aren't you that fat lordling from Ostia who has sells testosterone to your pansy friend or something?"_

_VAIDA! First instinct was to run away from this genetically haywire specimen of a woman, but he stopped himself just in time. The Ostian Marquess should not cower just because a woman has gender issues and produced no estrogen! He puffed out his chest like a proud rooster, or rather like Eliwood after a large donated hormonal transfusion of testosterone. "What do you want?" He asked hostilely, trying to keep his balance from his oversized chest, which was filled with the air he had hastily gulped. He felt like a helium balloon, and not surprisingly his voice came out as a Mickey Mouse squeak._

_Look who was the one with gender issues._

"_Nah, not me," Vaida replied with a sneer. "It's just that Umbrion here smelt another wyvern, so it's kind of interested."_

_Hector turned pale as he felt a scaly long snout poke itself happily around his rear end._

"_Say…you stink big time, of a male wyvern too…" Vaida made a snort of disgust. "Don't tell me…Umbrion? This dumb lordling with fake blue hair is your MATE?"_

_Umbrion snorted happily, poking her snout and sniffing diligently at Hector's armpits._

_Hector reddened in indignation at the insult to his hair. It was REAL, unlike what many thought it to be. He was proud of his 1000000 strands of fine blue hair stuck to his scalp as tightly as Merlinus sticking to his horse and wagon._

_That was before Umbrion tried to pull down his pants with her teeth. WHAT? Outrage of modesty in broad daylight!_

_Vaida did not look particularly bothered. "Chill lordling," she yawned. "I won't look. Besides, there can't be much to look at. I heard something about it being 0.9 inches?" She measured the distance with her little finger. "That's pathetic. Even my little toenail is longer than that."_

_Hector puffed out in indignation again. It was 9.0 inches, not 0.9 inches! She got it wrong and she was maligning his fine specimen of a body part! However, considering that he was about to become a wyvern's mate, the best option was first run, then send a diplomatic letter over to scream at Zephiel about his miscommunication of Hector's biometric information to his knights._

_Without another second to lose, in the race against a wyvern to save his fidelity vows and most likely his sanity too, he took off at top speed, with Umbrion chasing him, all the way into Castle Ostia._

_Hector spent a sleepless night trying to explain to Florina why there was a scaly reptile with four limbs serenading him in the moonlight and dedicating love songs to him._

_It was not a very easy task considering that she was armed with a Rex Hasta, a silver sword and Lyn's emergency button (the one that called Lyndis over in five seconds whether she was in Nabata, Dread Isle, Heaven or Hell)._

"No more foreigners for me!" He threw the towel at the mirror. Not surprisingly, the towel did not manage to break the mirror. However, Hector, who did not have any knowledge of the laws of physics, obviously did not understand and glared at the mirror in a deadly fury.

"How's my scaly reptile today?" A sultry voice called from the door.

And _that_. Ever since he had explained to her the incident of Comb and Umbrion, Florina absolutely insisted on call him a reptile. The night of the unfortunate incident it was 'big lumpy wyvern', yesterday it had been 'oversized dragon with beefy muscles' and tomorrow it would likely 'smelly little egg-laying pink and green teddy bear' or something along the lines.

Or worse, 'you cute little blue turtle spitting water like a mechanical fountain' could replace 'Hector' someday. Hector shuddered, picturing a little blue tortoise with his face. Yuck, turtles lay eggs. Many round eggs that looked like Wallace's head. He certainly did not feel like laying eggs the size of Wallace's head anytime soon, no matter how satisfied those mother chickens sound every time an egg popped out from their rear end.

"Florina, dear, darling, honey, sweetie, munchkins, poochie-woochie, cream puff, wedding cake, fairy godmother, jewel of my non-existent small beady blue eyes," Hector pleaded. "Would you please call me Hector, beloved husband, darling ramekins, pumpkin pie, chocolate éclair, strawberry shortcake, blueberry pie, blackberry jam, fearsome warrior who eats Zephiel for breakfast lunch and dinner, poo-poo bear again?"

"No!" Florina pouted and giggled. "I like calling you a smelly reptile." She gave him a sappy smile, ran over, attempted to give him a peck, ended up giving the his abused towel a wet sloppy French kiss and, not realizing that she had missed, flounced out of the room singing 'My husband looks like an oversized blue avocado'.

_Great. _Hector groaned.

"Lord Hector!" Oswin stormed into the room and attempted to skid to a stop before Hector. Unfortunately, he missed, crashed headlong into the mirror, dislodged the entire sink, knocked out the tap and collapsed in the washbasin, bubbles coming from the holes in his nostrils, mouth, eyes and ears.

"What is it?" Hector said crossly, looking at the gigantic fountain that had formed in the bathroom all thanks to his clumsy right hand man.

A jet of bubbles spewed out from Oswin's right ear as he attempted to explain to his lord what had transpired.

"Oswin," Hector snapped. "I can't understand fish-ish so please speak in English thank you very much."

Another small stream of bubbles appeared, this time from the right nostril. The bubbles stayed at the surface, formed the word 'sorry my lord' and popped.

"That's better," Hector beamed. "So what is it?" He stared at the essay of bubbles appearing on the surface of the water. "New candidate for spymaster position…not foreigner…from Pherae…Lord Marcus?" Hector sputtered. That was the BEST thing that had happened to him since he championed the 21st biannual contest of who-looks-like-a-naked-mole-rat and the 54th annual competition of who-smells-like-a-perfumed-skunk both in one day!

Marcus was old, so he would have had plenty of experience in handling youngsters like those good-for-nothing spies obsessed with anal details. Marcus was also the one who had stuck by Eliwood's rear end since young, ready to catch every priceless red strand of hair, every royal drop of sweat, every lordly wave of BO and of course, every piece of noble Pheraen poop that was carefully dried and used to perfume the Castle Pherae.

What a delightful smell it had been. Hector could almost not smell his own BO in the presence of his testosterone-deficient friend's noble droppings. The one hanging on the wall in his guest bedroom was labeled 'Imperial dropping of Lord Eliwood, age 5, imperial dropping number 33982648, date of production 18th November 382 BC, time of production 23.04 in the evening, dodecahedron in shape, brown and yellow in colour with black spots suspected to be sesame seeds, net weight 5.449(correct to 3 decimal placing) metric tons (anomaly suspected to be caused by consumption of marble table), 4 centimetres long, 5 centimetres wide, recorded by imperial dropping collector and analyzer, Sir Marcus de Excellentant Incollectar Da Von Poop Et Pee'.

The door to the bathroom slammed open and fell off its hinges, landing on the floor with an unceremonious splat and disintegrated promptly into ashes as a ancient looking paladin marched into the room, joints cracking like Bartre crunching on marble.

Taking a small plastic comb (COMB!) from a small pocket near his rear end, he combed the several thinning strands of purple hair still on his head with such diligence that Hector wondered if his purpose in life was to beat Wallace for next year's Whose-Head-Looks-Like-A-Hyperion's-Egg festival, organized annually by the balding Bern wyvern lords (who had their heads shaved by Hector's large Armads because Hector, for some divine reason that probably only his testosterone knows, ALWAYS missed whenever he tried to inflict serious off-with-your-head damages).

"Lord Hector of Ostia," Marcus bowed before Hector. His waist cracked like a cracked egg. His elbow hissed like a leaking soda bottle. His knees creaked like the sofa whenever Hector heaved his vast rear end onto the poor contraception. His neck, having no more unique sounds to make, gurgled happily. "You were looking for a spymaster? I shall attempt to be your spymaster."

Marcus' voice sounded like a leaking tap, dribbling and drabbling, whining and commanding, annoying and fascinating (Hector had ran out of words, after all, he had a 50 word vocabulary).

"Okay…" Hector stared uncertainly at the antique specimen of a homo sapiens sapiens still bowing before him. For some reason, if evolution was the cause of the development of humans, and humans had evolved from apes, Marcus still looked remarkably like an old purple gorilla with flabby arms. "Are you sure you are up to the task for this? I was looking for…" Hector shifted through the 50 words to find a good word that would express his intentions but not hurt Marcus' feelings in the process. The search resulted in 'no results found'. "Younger?"

Scarcely had the words left his lips Marcus had burst into noisy sobs by the basin where Oswin was still stuck. "Oh my goodness!" Marcus wept delicately, sniffling. He _really_ sounded like a leaking toilet bowl. Looked like one too. "First Lord Eliwood! Now you Lord Hector! I, Marcus, am too old to do anything besides change Lord Eliwood's nappies for him! I shall sooner drown myself and die in honour!"

_Lord Eliwood still wore nappies? _Hector choked painfully on his own saliva.

After his emotional speech, Marcus proceeded to fulfill his self-fulfilling prophecy by sticking his head into the water in the basin.

Hector rolled his eyes. If Marcus wanted to drown that badly, there was a sea just beside Pherae, and he could jolly well go rest in peace in his native land. The last thing Hector needed was to write another bill to Eliwood asking for a refund to cover Marcus' coffin and funeral, when that pansy testosterone-lacking friend of his had failed to refund Hector for the last seventeen testosterone transfusions.

"Seventeen gallons of testosterone gone with the wind," Hector muttered. "Hey Sir Marcus!"

Marcus looked up and saluted from where he had been trying futilely to stick his head in the water basin when Oswin's large head occupied 99% of all available space in the basin. He did succeed in nearly making a nice mosaic cracked pattern on his skull though.

"Sir Marcus, I think you are very suitable for this job," Hector lied through his teeth. "However, rules are rules, whatever the heck they are, so you need to succeed a trial before you can take up the position." Hector scanned his archives for a good trial, came up with no results because all trials so far have been utter flops, and sighed dramatically. "Alright, your task is to present me with the spy report on Bern by the end of this week. You have five days to collect information about King Zephiel's doings this week and compile all the crap that those spies came up with and give it to me in a report no thicker than 2 inches."

"Yessir!" Marcus saluted, voice and bones creaking like unoiled gate hinges.

* * *

A week passed in a blink of an eye, and Hector found himself at his desk looking through the documents, bills and love letters from his wife (all starting with 'my dearest smelly bright blue toothless avocado snake in desperate need of a BO cleanser') when he heard a loud hoarse roar followed by sounds of quarreling, smashing, breaking of glass, clashing of weapons, insults, curses, profanities of all colours and shades of the rainbow and creaking unoiled gates.

"I tell you, you little insolent fool, it has an 'a' in it! At the back!" Sir Marcus roared, waving his silver lance in the air and smashing the chandeliers one by one. If Marcus had been doing it on purpose, Hector would say Marcus had a really good aim. If Marcus had been having accidents all the way with the chandeliers, Hector would say that Marcus had a really bad aim.

"Nooooooooo…" the junior spy retorted. "You got it all wrong. It has a 'uh' at the back, not an 'a'."

"No, you're both wrong," Florina giggled from the couch. "There's nothing at the back, just like Hawkeye's chest!" She smiled sheepishly at their stares and looked away, singing 'My husband's face looks like a baboon's rear end'.

_How DID she know so many husband songs? _Hector marveled, until he realized that the husband in aforementioned context would refer to him.

"My face looks like a baboon backside?" He shrieked in horror like Serra when Matthew told her she had a mini pimple the size of an atom on her right cheek.

Marcus and the junior spy, whose name was Bill or Will or Till or Sill or Mill or Flour or something of that sort, leapt up and rushed to his side.

"Lord Hector!" They shouted unanimously.

They glared daggers at each other unanimously.

"Hi frumpy-tailed grumpy chipmunk husband!" Florina waved from the couch and continued singing 'My husband's face looks like a baboon's rear end', this time with even more conviction and rhythm.

Everyone stared at her.

She ignored everyone and continued singing. When the song ended with a 'So his face is so red and so fat and so chubby…just like a baboon's rear end…", she began another one, namely 'My husband walks like a ten thousand pound chimpanzee".

_Alright, what's with her and the ape references!_ Hector huffed. He glared at the retreating back of his wife, then stared daggers at Marcus and the junior spy. "What do you want?"

"Lord Hector!" the junior spy said first, being younger and thus he was able to move his lips faster unlike Marcus' age-deteriorated ones. "Sir Marcus and I are arguing over the spelling of this word in the report. I insist it ends with 'uh' but he thinks that the last letter is an 'a'. If you ask me that is utter nonsense because ever since I learnt how to eat I knew that it was spelled with 'uh' but then this old fellow here says that-"

"OLD fellow?" Marcus roared. The rusty hinges all over Elibe cheered for their spokesperson for the Be-A-Rusty-Hinge-Fellowship. "Who are you calling OLD fellow? It's ANCIENT, you fool! Old is an INSULT, you hear me? I repeat, it's ANCIENT! FOSSILISED! ANTIQUE! ARCHAIC! HISTORIC! No, PREHISTORICCCCCC!"

And he proceeded to trace his immediate relatives. Tyrannosaurus-Rex was his grandfather; Brachiosaurus was his aunt; and the woolly mammoth was his mum. Prehistoric indeed.

"The last letters are still 'uh'," the junior spy said sullenly.

"Okay," Hector snapped impatiently. "What exactly is that word?"

"Diarrhea," both of them said immediately.

"Diarrhea?" Hector wrinkled his face in disgust. Of all the hundred thousands of words in the standard vocabulary and the several millions of words in one's imagined vocabulary why did they have to choose the word' diarrhea'? Hector had seen it too many times in past spy reports to even remember what the first letter was. Was it a 'Z', or was it 'W'?

"I think it ends with 'a'," Hector said finally, after spending eternity deciding. It made sense phonetically, whatever the hell that word meant. Uther had taught him that word without describing definition and thus it was up to Hector to slot random abstruse diction into random wordings, regardless of whether it was right or wrong.

"Ho ho ho!" Marcus laughed, stoking his 2mm long purple and grey goatee with pink spots. "I knew I was right! Look here, you youngsters, the prehistoric fossiled homo sapiens sapiens Marcus is back with his long train of mucus right into the Ostian Castle!" He made a cowboy movement and landed flat on his face with various creaks and cracks. "Oww… spleen… shattered… brain… malfunctioning… hand… twisted… ankle… sprained… stomach… burst… legs… growing pins…arms… growing needles…lungs…punctured…heart…broken…"

Hector sighed and extracted the report from Marcus hands duly, opening them and scanning the first page.

"WHAT THE HELL IN THE NAME OF ROLANDS' RED LACY THONGS ARE THESE?" He shouted murderously.

Silence.

"Roland wears red lacy thongs?" Oswin ventured timidly, then looked deighted and slapped his bottom. "I'm wearing _my_ lucky red lacy thongs too!" He smiled smugly. "Mine's of Lady Louise's own personal design; is his from Elimine brand? I heard those are given selectively to people to Renault and Lucius who have done a great service to Elimine!"

Silence.

"Lucius wears red lacy thongs?" Marcus asked weakly. "Ohh… mouth… dislocated…"

Silence.

"Yeah," Oswin gossiped enthusiastically. "You'll never believe it, but Renault does too! Pink with yellow jumping bunnies and white unicorns, to top it all off!"

There was a scandalous gasp, followed by a series of sniggers.

"ARGHHHHH!" Hector screamed. The roof of the Ostian Castle flew for ten seconds, then crashed back onto the architecture. "I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! I TOLD YOU I WANTED A GOOD REPORT AND THIS IS WHAT YOU GIVE ME? I GAVE YOU A CHANCE AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?"

He gasped for air.

"LET ME TELL YOU THIS YOU PREHISTORIC REPTILE. THIS REPORT SUCKS BIG TIME! I DON'T NEED A DAMNED LANGUAGE TEACHER TELLING ME THAT TOILET IS SPELLED WITH 2 'T'S. AND I DON'T GIVE A DAMN THAT YOU SPELT DIARRHEA WRONGLY!"

He gasped for more air.

"BUT THIS IS REALLY THE LAST STRAW! YOU TOOK THAT FOOL'S REPORT AND CORRECTED ALL HIS SPELLING ERRORS AND GIVE IT TO ME COMPLETE WITH CROSS SECTION OF ZEPHIEL'S LATEST POOP SAMPLE? THAT'S FOR HIS DAMNED DOCTOR TO ANALYSE HIS DIETARY PROBLEMS, NOT ME! I WANT IMPORTANT STUFF! LIKE WHAT KIND OF WOMEN WOULD ATTRACT ZEPHIEL AND WHAT CAN I DO TO RUIN HIM AND STOP HIM FROM TAKING My WIFE! WHAT IN THE WORLD DID YOU DO IN PHERAE WHY IS EVERYONE SO DAMNED USELESS?"

Hector ended his tirade.

Everyone stared at him.

"If you really want to know," Marcus said in a small voice. "I'm a prehistoric mammal, not reptile. I give birth to my offspring alive and I have hair."

Silence.

"I'll go back to Pherae," Marcus said at last. "Even Lord Eliwood appreciates me better. At least he likes it that his rear end is nice and clean after I help him clean up after he has his diarrhea."

"URGH!" Hector threw his Armads and it smashed an inch away from Marcus. Taking that to be a sign, Marcus exited.

"You know boy," he chided. "You need to be more respectful towards your elders. It is a virtue that you lack. And you need to be appreciative of what others help you do-"

One more flying Wolf Beil.

Marcus vanished.

Oswin sighed and pretended to be an egg.

Hector wanted to cry.

Florina started singing 'My husband looks like a disembodied swollen chili pepper'.

Hector cried.

And all was well again at Castle Ostia.

* * *

**Matthew: Sigh...Looks like my ex-young master has placed his faith in the wrong person again...first the wife, then the right hand man, now the spymaster...**

**snowylavendermist: Well, for one, Hector was never too smart. He had more brawns than brains, like he had 5 tons of beefy muscles for every half a brain cell he possessed. Next, he loves Florina too much. AWWWWW. Love is blind, Matthew. Then, for henchman, he has no choice. No one else can endure his temper and pretend to be an egg while Hector's angry. Third, well...Hector certainly has tried his best in searching for a good replacement.**

**Matthew: PHAIL. *shifts weights* Chad, wanna go help this uncle?**

**Chad: NEVAR. DADA MINE! *gets hit by an iron sword, a fire strike and a flux attack***

**Cath & Lugh & Ray: Dada ours too!**

**Jaffar: ...**

**Lugh & Ray: Papa!**

**Nino: Honey!**

**Jaffar: ...I love you Nino...**

**Nino: *sob* I love you too Jaffar...**

**Lugh & Ray: *sweatdrop* EWWWWWWW**

**Cath: AWWWW**

**snowylavendermist: *pokes Matthew* Did you and Leila do this without my knowledge too? Cuddling around Jaffar, unhand Nino. That's outright perversion in road daylight!**

**Legault: Sorry? I heard someone mentioning my favourite past-time *smirk***

**snowylavendermist: NEVER MIND. Right, everyone out there. I have a problem. darkblaziken is still suntanning her back somewhere in marshmallow land and she won't be back anytime soon. I NEED A SUGGESTION. I'm drained. Please, give me recommendations of people I can place in the next few chapters. Thanks. XD**


	10. Here Lies Guy

**Here Lies Guy**

* * *

Hector stared, frustrated, at the thick stack of papers before him. Perhaps he ought to have appreciated Marcus' work with spelling and grammar, for he was now faced with another huge pile of reports, most of which not only contained pure garbage in such high concentrations that even he was drowning in it, but was also written in the worst conceivable forms of English he had ever seen – if that could even be counted as English. All of them also seemed to have a penchant for spelling diarrhea as "diarrheuh". Oh, and did he mention, all of it started with 'dear Lord Hectur', and they spelled Oswin's name as 'Oswine'.

Well, Oswine was a very good name, certainly, and Hector was pretty agreeable with it, only that perhaps 'Oswine' wasn't the most appropriate name of his right-hand man. Oswin, if everyone recalled, was _orange, _not _pink_. If Hector could rename his right hand man, he would personally bestow the name 'Oswange of Ostiakist'

As he threw aside another thick compilation (oh, how much parchment did these spies have to waste before they were satisfied? Oh right, as much parchment as Zephiel's toilet paper, haha), he spotted two brown envelopes sitting neatly in the mess on his table. One of them carried a curious curly script which he had never seen before. Hurriedly he tore it open, praying that it was a letter from Womb, no Tomb, no Comb (Ah ha!) that stated that he was willing to return to Ostia as spymaster. Out fell a short letter.

_To the most esteemed Lord Hector, distinguished Marquess of Ostia:_

_I am Astol, the spymaster who had sought you some time ago regarding the position of Ostian Espionage Head. I remember telling you that I would find you after two months to ask again if you wish for me to take that position. However, I certainly doubt that you would keep track of the time given the events that are taking place at Castle Ostia now—or at least are rumoured to be taking place there due to the trials. _

_Hence, I would like to offer you another method of communication: if you ever wish to recruit me, just drop a letter to your ex-spymaster, Matthew. He will find me._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Astol_

Hector rolled his eyes. This Astol was really persistent, wasn't he? He turned his attention to the other envelope, and recognized the slanted scribble straightaway as Matthew's handwriting. He opened it, and a note written on crumpled parchment, together with dubious pieces of brown smelly goo and wet sticky watery puddles fell out.

_Lord Hector,_

_Was that Astol guy really that shameless? Did he really send you a letter? Well, if he did, I applaud him. _

_But I'm sure you can surely find someone better than him. For god's sake, there are so many people out there! Meaning no offence, milord, but surely thou art a little more resourceful than that? _

_Well then, good luck on your spymaster-hunting. A word of advice though: never hire a Sacaen. They never lie. So if you ever do hire one, it's going to cause a lot of trouble to both of you. _

_Have fun! I'm sure you can find someone better than me…someday._

_Your ex-henchman Matthew_

_P.S. forgive me for the parchment; there are four infants clinging on to me all day and they crumpled it up. Lucius has gone on an errand or something, and there's only me left to take care of the orphanage._

Hector swore that Matthew's words were dripping with sarcasm, but unfortunately (or fortunately) the ex-spymaster was now out of reach of Hector's Wolf Beil and Armads. But that note made him more determined than ever to find someone who would be better than Matthew. He would! He would! Whine!

"Milord?" Oswin's voice came from the doorway. "Are you quite alright?" See, he _knew_ they should have renamed him Oswange, first pedigree cousin of the royal orange fruit, bursting in goodness and juicy sweetness. As for Oswin, well, since he was only the cousin, he was bursting in not goodness but fatness and full of round juicy sourness and fat rolls.

Oops. Had he said his thoughts out loud? Sitting up straight in his vast chair and putting on the best I-am-not-to-be-messed-with look, Hector cleared his throat and said as majestically as he could, "I am quite well. Is there anything you need to ask of me?"

"There is someone vying for the position of the Ostian Spymaster at the castle gates."

"Very well. Call him in!"

Just after he had said his command, there was a whiz and a green-and-blue-and-beige blur sped into the room. A young man with a green braid and eager green eyes appeared in front of him, seemingly out of thin air, killing edge poised in a very contorted Wushu pose. Slowly, he shifted his stance so that his killing edge was now pointed right at Hector's crotch and he looked ready to joust forth and destroy Hector the Man and create Hector the Newly-Made Eunuch.

"Uh, I recognize you! Now what's the name of this guy again…..Umm…something to do with gender…Straight? Bent? Gay?" Hector spoke to himself rather than to his newly-arrived guest, eyes screwed in thought. He slowly backed away from the killing edge pointing at his lower body.

"It's Guy," the newcomer said eagerly. "You just said it yourself! 'This Guy', that's what you said! As clear as Canas' monocle!" He stabbed his killing edge into one stack of the spies' reports and carved a huge 'G' on top, sending shreds of paper fibre into Hector's hair. "I. Am. THE. Guy."

Hector squinted at the 'G'. "You know, if you don't have a trademark for this yet, and people don't know you well enough. One look at the braid and they'll think that 'G' stands for gay."

"Hey!" Guy leapt onto the couch and started poking holes in the couch seats. "You insult me! I shall insult your couch!" He sliced off the cover of the couch.

One spring sprang up.

Two springs sprang up.

All the springs sprang up.

Jumping on the springs so that his head nearly hit the ceiling everytime he leapt, Guy screamed at the top of his lungs. "WATASHIWA GUY-SAN!" He jumped too high, cracked his head against the ceiling and landed onto the floor with a sickening crunch. "Oooo…SHIT-AKE MUSHROOM!"

Pigeons roosting within six-miles radius of the castle took flight in shock at the sonorous screaming.

"Oh…right," Hector pretended to know whatever that guy was talking about. "So…you wish to apply for the position of Ostian Espionage Head?"

"Yup! Watch me! Whoa!" Guy clambered up from where he was sprawled on the groun, did a backflip, ending up in another impressive pose with his killing edge dangerously close to Oswin's neck. "WATASHIWA AMAZING GUY-KUN! Oooooooo…Oswin-san nearly dead!"

Hector clapped.

Oswin promptly fainted.

Etruria's court druids reported of a magnitude 7.9 devastating earthquake that had ravaged half of Elibe, with the epicenter apparently right at Castle Ostia.

"Oops…I didn't mean to do that…Now Oswin-san really dead." Guy stared at the dead orange block lying on the floor. He slapped his cheeks till they were red like a Japanese macaque's backside. "NOOOOO! WATASHIWA MURDERER-SAN! NUUUUUUUUU…"

"Never mind that," Hector waved that aside with an impatient hand. _This guy…Guy seems to have some skill with a blade! And he's speedy, too! He's comparable to Matthew! Maybe even better than Matthew. Ha! Serves that peanut-butter head right for taunting me! _He thought happily. Clearing his throat again, he asked in a somewhat pompous voice, "So, why do you want to apply for the job?"

Guy did another somersault, landing with his killing edge thrust forward, missing Hector's face by a millimetre. (But of course Hector was too impressed to faint from this.) "Because…because I want to prove to that idiot Matthew that I can do what he does just as well as he can!" He drew an equation in the air that looked something like GuyMatthew. "This is very simple. Like how to cook miso soup. Boil water, throw miso in and drink!"

_Good motivation,_ thought Hector. _Oh, has Saint Elimine finally answered my prayers? _(wait, since when did Hector even pray?) _Has she finally sent me someone competent? Someone good with a sword and speedy and…_he stopped abruptly through his Guy-worshipping. Wait, what if this person was Sacaen? After all, Sacaens were known for their swordplay, were they not? "Eh, Guy. Forgive me for my forthrightness, but where are you from?"

Guy twirled like a spinning top, finally stopping himself with no sign of dizziness at all. "I'm from Kutolah. But why do you ask? You are very suspicious. Like guard dogs. Arf arf!"

If Hector had paid more attention during his Cultural Studies classes, or even if he had had more common sense, then he would have realized that the Kutolah tribe is a very prominent tribe on the plains of Sacae. But since he hadn't, his insides did a triple-somersault in joy. "Uh…nothing. But yes! Ah…okay! So, Guy, I want you to go to Bern and find out what Zephiel has in mind. Eh, to make your mission even easier, I'll send a senior spy with you."

Guy was in the midst of twirling around the room so fast that he seemed to have split into three guys, ahem, sorry, Guys when Hector announced his task. He stopped abruptly, a frown on his face. "Wait, did you just say you're going to make my mission easier? That's not what I want! I need to show that I'm as good as Matthew! Or better! Matthew is peanut butter. Pffttt. Everyone knows peanut butter sticky and no good. I need to be premium peanut butter, non-sticky and very good. Everyone will buy Guy peanut butter."

Hector sweatdropped.

"Ah…no no no….did I say easier? I meant harder, yes, harder. You see, those senior spies can be very, very irritating and if you're able to complete this task without being distracted by them, uh, it'd be an accomplishment indeed!" _Heck, to hell with him not being able to accomplish this. I'd hire him anyway. I SO need to spite that Matthew. _

Guy shrugged. "Well, if you say so…" and without another word, he whizzed out of the room, leaving a Guy-shaped poof of dust in his wake. "WATASHIWA SPY-SAN!"

* * *

The senior spy who had been sent along with Guy studied his partner dubiously. Was Lord Hector crazy? Even if they weren't all that professional, this guy here looked like he was clueless about the requirements of a spy. He was speedy and skilled with a blade, sure, but he was too energetic (he couldn't stay still for a minute; does this guy have ADHD?), too conspicuous (swinging your sword around and spinning is impressive if you're a swordmaster, but it's a huge taboo for spies) and too naïve.

In short, he looked like a total N00B. With capital N. And B.

"Uh….hi," he said tentatively to his now happily bouncing colleague-to-be, if Hector was serious about recruiting him.

"Hello!" Guy replied brightly, swinging his sword in a wide arc. "Nice day, isn't it? Oh look! There's a pigeon! Fat! Cute! Fat! Fat! It's walking! Oooo…red lily pad shaped feet…colour like Raven's hair! Fat! Cute! Cute! OOOOOOOOO…it has wings! Like fairy godmamas!" He looked as though he had just had an epic epiphany.

"Uh…I guess so…" The senior spy was sweatdropping profusely now. "Umm…you're new to being a spy, aren't you?"

"Yep." Guy threw his blade up in a very good imitation of a mercenary's critical attack, making it land perfectly in a random stack of hay. "But I guess it shouldn't be too hard, right? I mean, if Matthew can do it…I _so _am going to do a_ better job _than_ him!_" He punctuated each emphasis with a stab in the haystack. "Haiyah! Thou art a fool to mess with thy holy Guy. Foolish like a toad who wants to eat barbecued swan neck!"

The senior spy backed off. "Whoa…okay…take it easy, dude…"

"My name is _Guy_, not DUDE!" He took a deep breath. "WATASHIWA GUY-SAN!"

"O-okay, Guy. Um. So, we're going to get our disguises right first. If the Bernese border guards ask us for our name and what we are there for, what would you say?"

"Watashiwa Guy, and Watashiwa spy of Ostia who's going to infiltrate the Bernese Castle for fun!"

The senior spy rammed his head against the pile of bricks which had just mysteriously appeared out of thin air. This guy…Guy really didn't have any sense in him, did he? "No…Guy. Uh, if you put it that way, the guards are never going to let you pass."

"Well, then I'll just finish them off!" He moved into prepare-for-battle posture. "Like how we finish off roasted chicken feet! Bones, skin, meat, muscle, toes and all!"

The senior spy smashed his head against the bricks a second time. But due to the astounding hardness of his skull (which is a necessary prerequisite for all aspiring to be Ostian spies, because one never knows when an errant Hand Axe or Wolf Beil may fly your way), he was still perfectly sane, unlike a certain guy—Guy next to him. "No, we can't do that. Spies are meant to be inconspicuous and we have to slip around unnoticed. We do not kill someone unless it is absolutely necessary, usually to silence someone who has discovered us. But this does not qualify as being 'absolutely necessary' yet. Those border guards are idiots. Guy, to get past the border guards, you simply have to _lie_."

Guy stopped his massive displays of epic-swordmaster-critical-attacks abruptly, a look of horror on his face, as though the senior spy had just pronounced his death statement. "W-what? N-no way! I can't do that! Sacaens never lie! Father Sky and Mother Earth are watching me! They'll punish me if I do! NUUUUUUUU…" he proceeded to grab his head and shake it vehemently. "I have a headache, like someone is bashing my head against a tofu! OWWWWWW…tofus are painful…"

The senior spy slammed his head against the bricks a third time. Why, oh why in St. Elimine's name has Lord Hector chosen a _Sacaen_? Doesn't he know that Sacaens don't, and can't lie? "Oh, Elimine…didn't Lord Hector ask you where you were from when he recruited you?"

"Well, he did. I told him I'm from the Kutolah Tribe. Isn't that synonymous with being Sacaen? Synonymous like Guy equal awesome, Matthew equal awful, Master Karel equal…" he fell onto both knees and kissed the ground. "…sensei…"

_Evidently, Lord Hector has even less brain capacity than I expected him to have. _Of course, the senior spy did not voice his opinion out. "Hm. Well. Okay, I'll see what I can do about this. You just keep silent when others question us. Don't answer unless it's absolutely necessary. And if you do, please, _lie_, just this once!"

Guy looked at him dubiously.

* * *

"Stop!"

Two Bernese soldiers came over, leering at the pair of travelers. "Who are you, and what are you here for?"

"Ah, I am a travelling merchant who wishes to sell my wares. Do you wish to see some of my goods?" The senior spy pointed to the wagon behind him.

The Bernese border guards nodded and turned their attention to Guy. "So, who are you?" one of them snapped.

Before Guy could answer, the senior spy answered for him. "Ah, this is my servant. He's mute, so don't bother to ask him anything."

If there was one thing that the senior spy had yet to learn about Sacaens, it was that they had a very, very strong sense of pride. Guy was so wounded by his previous sentence that he involuntarily burst out in indignation, "No! I'm not! I am not servant! Servants are like people with dirty blond hair who live in mudholes because they cannot carry swords!

The senior spy promptly bashed his head against that pile of bricks which had mysteriously materialized again.

The border guards had dirty blond hair and carried lances.

More head-bashing ensued.

The border guards paid no attention to his head-bashing, but instead turned their attention to Guy. "So, who are you?"

Guy blanched. "Watashiwa Guy-san. Ohaiyo soldiers-san." He bowed deeply with his hands clasped before him.

This was accompanied by another crashing sound of skull against stone.

"What are you here for?"

Guy caught the glare from the senior spy. _Okay, so I have to lie…come on, Matthew does it all the time…if you want to be better than him, Guy, you'll have to lie! Just this once! _Guy took a deep breath, bracing himself. "Um…I'm here as a…companion of this merchant here. Companion, like chickens and mushrooms. Companions, them. Taste good together when cooked. Braised chicken with steamed mushrooms and chopped carrots. Mmmhmmm…" _Well, that technically isn't lying, is it? He's the one who lied about his identity, so I'm just following it. It's true, I'm his companion. And chickens and mushrooms DO taste good together…_

The border guards scrutinized him closely for a moment or two, and then gave up. "Alright, alright, you can pass," one of them said, lifting up his spear. The other followed suit.

Elated, they passed through the gate into the territory of Bern.

"Whew, that was close," said Guy. "Close like how Marcus sticks next to Lord Eliwoodo's backside." The senior spy glared at him.

"Close indeed! Guy, you nearly ruined the whole mission! Next time, keep your mouth shut!"

* * *

The next few days passed rather uneventfully as they travelled towards the capital of Bern. Guy managed to avoid trouble by telling half truths or incomplete truths, and it seemed to work pretty well; he wasn't exactly lying, but he didn't exactly tell the truth either. As time went on, he got more used to constructing such sentences, and concealing part of the truth soon came rather naturally to him. And so, all was well.

All was well, that was, until he came across a very troubling question near the castle gates.

"What are you here for?" The guard asked the two of them. As usual, the senior spy came up with some tale of visiting a relative who worked in the castle. Nodding, the guard raised his lance and let him pass. But as Guy tried to follow him, the lance came down on him again.

"What are you here for?" The guard repeated.

"I'm that person's companion," Guy replied, as usual. He walked forward, expecting to be allowed entry, but the lance didn't budge. "Companion like chicken and mushroom."

"I'm sorry, but we only allow visiting relatives into the castle. Are you a relative of the person he is visiting as well?"

Guy felt a dead weight drop into his stomach. _Oh shit-ake mushrooms.. _"I'm his companion," he repeated hopefully. "Companion like chicken and mushroom."

"Yes, I know you're his companion, and I know what are chickens and mushrooms, but are you a relative of the person he is visiting as well? Because you certainly do not look like him."

_Oh it's raining shit-ake mushrooms__,_ Guy swore silently. _That is a yes-no question! _"Uh…maybe?" he tried, a tentative smile on his face. "Maybe like enoki mushroom and shitake mushroom, distant relatives but not so close…"

The guard was losing his patience. "WHAT KIND OF ANSWER IS 'MAYBE'? I JUST NEED YOU TO TELL ME, ARE YOU A RELATIVE OF THE PERSON HE IS VISITING? YES OR NO?"

Guy swallowed. The senior spy was nodding furiously behind the guard's back, an anxious expression that clearly spoke that he was going to strangle Guy if he answered wrongly. _Okay, I'm going to lie just this once…Father Sky and Mother Earth, please do not kill me…_ "Ai."

No sooner had Guy uttered those words when a dazzling, slightly pink-tinged bolt of lightning split through the sky followed by a strangely shrill clap of thunder. A high-pitched voice echoed through the air, a voice not unlike a certain pink-haired demon's.

"_GUY OF THE KUTOLAH! THOU HAST DEFIED THE CODE OF THE SACAENS! THOU HAST TOLD A LIE! THEREFORE I, THE SUPREME, GORGEOUS, DAZZLING, MAJESTIC__ AND HOLY ST. ELIMINE—"_

"WAIT!" screamed Guy. "Uh, you're Saint Elimine? Saint Elimine like divine fluttering human-like thing with pigeonish wings and chicken feet?"

"_YES, OF COURSE, MORTAL. YOU DARE QUESTION MY DIVINITY?"_

"O-of course not! It's just that…I thought that since I'm Sacaen, it should be Father Sky and Mother Earth who should be here…like here here?"

"…_NEVER MIND THAT. LET'S JUST SAY THAT FATHER SKY AND MOTHER EARTH HAVE BEGGED ME TO DEAL OUT THE PUNISHMENT TO YOU, SINCE YOU HAVE PRAYED THAT THEY DO NOT DEAL THE PUNISHMENT DIRECTLY. ANYWAY, MORTAL, DO NOT CHANGE THE SUBJECT. THOU HAS DEFIED THE CODE OF HONESTY OF THE SACAENS, AND THEREFORE, THOU SHALT RECEIVE THE DIVINE PUNISHMENT AS THOU DESERVES!" _with that came another dramatic bolt of lightning, causing Guy to vaporize on the spot, leaving two very confused and scared people, namely the guard and the senior spy, shivering on the spot.

A very pregnant pause ensued.

"Uh…what in hell was that all about?"

* * *

Karel was feeling rather irritated. Sure, he had his trusty (and rusty, from all the bloodstains) Wo Dao with him, he had just ripped the throat of another of those foolish, presumptuous challengers, but he was feeling no satisfaction from it at all. No satisfaction.

Perhaps it's because of the look of terror on his ex-challenger's face before he died. Seriously, did he look that intimidating? Or was it just because of his title, the Sword Demon?

Come to think of it, he was starting to get bored of the title. The Sword _Demon_. Seriously. That made him fall on the same level as that pink-haired cleric, whom some people named the "pink-haired demon". Not a pleasant thought. Who would want to be associated with a shrill, annoying, glittery girl who waves her staff around as though it's some sort of weapon?

Oh please, he had good taste. He had nice shiny jet –black _pristine _( you pronounce pristine with a tongue roll and a purr) hair that any man would like to have.

As if to answer his thoughts, there came a sudden bolt of shimmering pink lightning and a melodramatically loud clap of thunder. That exact irritating shrill voice echoed through the air, although it sounded somewhat different. Perhaps it wasn't her voice, after all.

"_MORTAL. I, SUPREME, GORGEOUS, DAZZLING, MAJESTIC AND HOLY GODDESS, ST. ELIMINE, AM HERE TO INFORM THEE THAT THE PREVIOUS SAINT OF SWORDS HAS BEEN BANISHED FROM EXISTENCE. THEREFORE, FROM NOW ON, THOU SHALT BE CONFERRED THE TITLE OF 'THE SAINT OF SWORDS', AND THOU SHALT BE KNOWN AS THE NEW SAINT OF SWORDS!"_

Another sparkly jolt of lightning, and everything was back to normal.

Karel shrugged and licked his sword (how he could stand letting his tongue come into contact with a twenty-year build-up of dried blood and rust is beyond the author's comprehension). _The Saint of Swords_…now that was certainly an intriguing title. He played around with the thought for a while, then shoved it into a random corner of his mind. _I need to kill something now. Maybe a rabbit._

He could never imagine then how drastically that harmless little thought that had just been planted—or rather, incepted—into his mind would change his way of living in years to come.

END

* * *

**Author's Note**

**DarkBlaziken: Whew! Happy New Year everyone! I'm so sorry for the delay, it's all because of me; but I hope that this gave you a laugh or two!**

**snowylavendermist: Yeah right. You watched too much Inception on the way back. Too much for your own good. Look what you just did to Karel.**

**Matthew: *ignores the two* Anyway, that Guy, seriously. He thinks that being a spy is so easy. Ha. Serves him right.**

**snowylavendermist: Soooooo mean, Matthew! Anyway, for concerned fangirls of that green-haired myrmidon out there, No guys...I mean, Guys, were harmed in the making of this chapter.**

**DarkBlaziken: You know, I really don't get that Hector. Why doesn't he just promote one of his current spies to Head of the Ostian Spy Network? Like the senior spy, he seemed pretty logical.**

**The senior spy promptly leaps out and declares that he has had enough of being called "the senior spy" and proclaims that he has a name, which is 'Thomas Eliasis Mimsley Mimosa Sanakisanakuni Imperial Custard Bun of the Wobbling Pigeons Empire'.**

**Everyone promptly ignores him.**

**Matthew: Well, if you think he seemed pretty logical…what of the head-bashing? And I'll have you know that he's one of the key conspirators in the Zephiel's-bowel-activity-reports. He seems to think them important. *tuts* Hector just has to admit it, he'll never find a spy as good as me.**

**snowylavendermist: tsk, Matt, so ego! What of Colm?**

**Matthew:…well, he refused the job, didn't he? Clever of him.**

**DarkBlaziken: unlike you, who willingly endured the torture of staying in Castle Ostia for almost ten years. A good waste of ten years, Matt! *claps him on the back***

**Matthew: I only stayed there because Leila was there, okay? Why else would I want to be there?**

**snowylavendermist: oh…we never know…maybe you secretly harboured feelings for a certain pink-haired cleric? Aww…so sweet…**

**Matthew:…shut up before I set Chad, Cath, Lugh and Ray on you.**


End file.
